


Touched by Heaven

by neverwitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Brotherly Love, Complete Rewrite of Season 12, Cute Sam and Dean moments, Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, Feels, Kissing, Lucifer finds new vessels, Lucifer's child is pure gold, Lucifer-centric, M/M, Rewrite, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 12, Slow Build, Surprise Kissing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, sam and dean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwitch/pseuds/neverwitch
Summary: A complete rewrite of Supernatural Season 12 with a touch of Samifer, starting from episode 8, LOTUS."Does it hurt?""Sometimes.""Does it hurt now?""No."*Sam and Dean did NOT go to prison.*Mary Winchester is NOT in the picture.*They did NOT put Lucifer back in the Cage in ep 8.*Cass did NOT lose his powers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after watching LOTUS.

[4 months after LOTUS]

 

Kelly stared at the crucifix hanging from a nail on the wall above her desk. It wasn’t hers. She was an atheist. She didn’t believe in God and she didn’t believe anything from the bible.

 _‘Had,’_ her subconscious corrected itself. _Had_ been an atheist. _Hadn’t_ believed anything from the bible. But now…

She sighed heavily through her nose, and closed her eyes for a moment. She tried to concentrate on the weight supported in her arms; it helped with the headache.

Her grandfather had believed in everything. From the Genesis to the John, he had remained faithful to the very last onion-skin-thin page. The crucifix had been his. He had given it to her on the week before his death in one of the local hospitals near his home. The thing was small, about the length and width of her hand.

“I carved this out o’ the old oak tree growing in my backyard when I was ‘bout thirty,” he’d said. He’d said this often. “I carved myself a piece o’ Christ’s pain out o’ a sturdy bough the day I found God.”

“And where did you find God?” She’d asked. She’d bothered to ask out of curiosity when she was little—couldn’t have been more than six—and heard the story for the first time, genuinely wondering and naïve. And she’d really believed when he answered,

“Here.”

He’d pointed to his own heart. Taking his granddaughter’s small white hand in his own browned and withered pair, he’d murmured in a low voice, almost as if to himself,

“Sometimes the most important things are told you not by the brain, but the heart, my child.”

She hadn’t understood his words back then. She’d been too young. She’d believed them, though. Because she’d been so young, and she’d loved him. And now, staring at the old cross, browned and withered like his aged hands, she couldn’t help but feel the sardonic edge of reality. She recalled what the two men—and the witch—and the King of Hell—and the angel—had told her.

_“The thing inside you, it’s unholy.”_

_“It is the spawn of Lucifer.”_

_“It’s an abomination.”_

Those had been their words. And the intelligent part of her anatomy had told her to drop whatever she had inside of her and to get rid of it. Drug yourself, get an abortion. Shove it up a baby-box as soon as it’s born and be done with it. But the sentimental part of her that must’ve lost its mind had spoken for her instead.

_“It’s my child.”_

Then she had hung up on the angel and driven away from his watch in the car. And now she was alone in her suburban house somewhere far away from that particular restaurant and certainly _very_ far away from Indianapolis. 

Indianapolis. Where all this mess had begun, starting with Jeff the possessed president of the U.S and now ended up four months later with a woman whose arms were holding…

_A fallen angel’s baby?_

If this was the kind of stuff her heart was telling her to do, then and from now on, she would have to take her grandfather’s words with two grains of salt. It more seemed like the _insane_ things than the _important_ things. The wrong things instead of the right.

But did that change anything?

No.

Because whenever she looked into the newborn’s wide silvery-greyish eyes, whenever she touched its soft cheeks and felt its warm body against her own, it was not an _it_ anymore. It was a _her_ —a daughter.

Her daughter.

_Would God think of her as an abomination, too?_

She looked down at her now and saw she was sleeping peacefully. But then again, she hadn’t cried for the last 23 hours straight. Excepting for the hour of birth, she hadn’t even wailed once. Kelly watched with fascination as the baby’s plump, pink mouth parted a little in her dreams. She observed with greedy attention how her eyelashes fluttered in a restful slumber.

The maternal instinct embedded into the very genetic code of her sex was irresistible.

And the baby was growing at an alarming rate. Kelly had given birth to her after sixteen weeks of conceiving, and had brought her home wrapped in a blanket only an hour ago from the hospital. This and the way Kelly’s hand had been scorched by the holy bible four months ago left her no option but to believe the unbelievable; she had mated with Lucifer the Morningstar. And she had absolutely no idea what to do with the consequences, except to take care of the baby and keep her alive.

From them.

From those strange people that wanted to hurt her child.

 

Her left hand twitched nervously on the little bundle of flesh and bone in her arms. She needed to test something. Shifting the warm bundle to her right arm, she slowly extended her left hand towards her grandfather’s cross. She only had to touch it.

Her fingertips brushed against the wood.

They did not sting, nor did the wood burn.

She exhaled shakily and scrunched up her brows. Her worst fear was confirmed. Because those people were right; she wasn’t the problem.

It was her daughter.

It was unnatural, and perhaps it was meant to be scary—only she wasn’t scared. Exceedingly overwhelmed, yes. Quite a bit breathless, yes. But frightened of her own child? No. Because she was innocent of what her father was—a monster. And according to lore, even her father wasn’t exactly that, not technically speaking. Lucifer was a former archangel turned Satan, and she was pretty sure it didn’t mean a literal transfiguration from a humanoid with white feathers to one with bat-wings. It was all about his attitude, whether he obeyed God’s command and loved us humans or not. Pride had been his downfall, not a genetically-mutated sprouting of a set of horns.

She’d done her research, and being an ex-atheist helped with the logic.

“How clever you are, running away and keeping little baby-babe safe from the big bad wolves.”

Gasping at the sudden voice coming from right behind her, she whirled around and came face to face with a complete stranger she had never met before.

 

The stranger was a middle-aged man, with a wave of blond hair and freckle-less white skin. He was clean shaven, with thin eyebrows and angular jaws and thin lips. He also had a pair of the most hideously red eyes she’d ever seen.

She couldn’t even get another breath out—it was caught somewhere between the esophagus and the root of her tongue, suspended. She felt the hairs on her neck stand up as the stranger smiled.

“What, not happy to see your own lover?” he asked cheerfully. “Not happy to see the child’s own father?”

“You’re—”

“Lucifer the second-eldest son in the history of the universe, yes,” he answered dryly. His eyes began to cool to a shade of pale blue as he spoke. “I get lots of attention for my lineage.”

Kelly’s lower jaw became unhinged and gaped open like a fish.

“I assumed you would have figured out the…abnormality of the child by now and attributed the reason to me. You do know I’m its real father and not POTUS, yes?”

“I—”

“Good,” he lightly cut her off. Smile not quite gone yet, he dropped his gaze to the bundle in her arms. His meat-suit’s eyes momentarily gleamed red before turning blue again, and Kelly felt her hand instinctively tighten around her daughter. Her knees felt wobbly and for a moment she was worried she might faint and drop the child on the hard floor, and bash her head in.

Lucifer stepped a little closer. She took half a step back and hit her waist against the desk.

 

There was a long silence. During which Lucifer did absolutely nothing except to look at the child— _his_ child. His eyes traced meticulous lines along the curves and rounds of the baby’s plump little face. His glance rested on the same points as Kelly’s had; pink lips, long eyelashes, ivory-white cheeks. The invisible shroud of peaceful sleep surrounding it. He bore holes into its covered eye-sockets in a vain attempt to gouge the color of its eyes. It was not until a considerable time had passed before he thought to ask the mother.

“What color are its eyes?” he asked. His voice was soft, as if it was floating along the clouds of a reverie. Kelly couldn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t tear her stare away from this word-less, completely one-sided interaction between Lucifer and her child. 

“What color?” he asked again, this time more clearly.

“Si—silver-grey.” She replied, her guarded eyes never straying off his face.

Lucifer looked at the baby some more. He reveled at the sight of the lump full of life; full of life that half of which had been imparted by him. He leaned down a little closer, strange and foreign fascination stealing over his nonexistent heart. He could hear its easy breathing, so in contrast with its mother’s tense, irregular one. And if he concentrated hard enough, he could actually _feel_ the angelic part of the child coursing through its veins, thrumming away in a heart-beat rhythm only _he_ would ever be able to sense. Unobtrusive and in harmony with the rest of its human blood, parts of his long-gone wings and halo were there, within the child; he could feel their energy nudging at him, connecting him to the newborn in a way he had never dreamt of.

So small. So weak. So helpless.

 

For the first time in eons, he saw such a powerless creature and did not feel the urge to quash it to the ground into pieces.

It startled him.

“Boy or girl?”

His question was a murmur and out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“A daughter,” whispered a confused Kelly. She didn’t know what to make of him. There was an expression on his face that she desperately wanted to describe to herself. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve said it was almost—almost—tender. Tremulously, secretively so. Where was the Lucifer that had slammed her into a wall and chocked the air out of lungs months ago? Warily, she kept waiting for him to emerge.

The next thing she knew, Lucifer’s hand was on her daughter’s cheek—gently. Her hands automatically jerked the bundle away a little, but not quite out of his reach.

Something made her hesitate.

She held still.

As soon as the tips of his fingers touched his child’s skin, Lucifer felt the thrum of her—his—their angelic energy intensify. Their connection was intensified. He asked himself, _had he ever touched something so pure and not broken it?_

Not since the Mark. Not since the Cage.

And at that moment, the fact that the life under his hand was his was not a knowledge—it was a feeling. All this time, since he’d been banished from the president’s meat-suit, he’d vaguely wondered what seeing his offspring would be like. He had never entertained a moment’s thought of actually _loving_ it. He’d lost all sense of that complicated, consuming emotion several millenniums ago. Truth be told, he hadn’t known what to expect.

_Not this._

Not when he’d come purely out of jealous possessiveness.

 

[Three months and three weeks and two days earlier—Lucifer]

 

It took him some time to find a new vessel, one that wouldn’t die immediately or burn out twenty-four hours after possession. He finally got the right guy on the tenth try, though. An ordinary blondie-widow who’d lost an ordinary wife who’d died of an ordinary human disease. Same old sob-story with a variety of a hundred different meat-suits. Jumping from one body to another was tiresome, especially when he had to convince every one of them into saying “yes” by seduction. To humans it would be like searching for just the right couch or sofa or chair in a furniture store, only in this case the human would have to politely ask each and every one of the furniture to please allow his ass to rest on their laps. Not only that, but after getting permission, the furniture would collapse to the ground at a rate of nine-out-of-ten. Try doing _that_ for days on end, Lucifer growled under his breath.

Now, four days after his banishment by the golden ostrich-egg thing (which he had NOT anticipated), he was finally settling down in the blondie’s house. He had no clear course of action before him. It wasn’t like he could start another apocalypse because first, he felt too lazy and second, even if he did feel the motivation, all the Four Horsemen were gone. The Winchesters had taken care of them and wiped them clean from the written bible. They’d gone off-script a long time ago, and without them there was no plausible way of bringing about the end of the entire world. He wasn’t sure if he even _wanted_ that to happen.

Right now there was only one thing he could really fix his mind on.

The baby.

The president’s wife was pregnant with his child. _His._ For the first time, _he_ had created life. He tried to deny the slight tremor of curious excitement growing inside him. How insane was that?

Then he remembered the little menagerie of a moose, a squirrel, a crow, a cat, and a vixen that had visited Kelly. No doubt they’d warned her of the baby’s parentage and advised her to get rid of it. No doubt they’d try to kill it or take it away from her.

From him.

He was perturbed. Why did he have to lose everything he had? He’d lost his Father’s love. He’d lost his brothers’ and sisters’ trust. He’d lost his wings and halo. He’d lost his home. He’d lost his freedom. He’d lost the war. He’d lost all warmth. If he lost his own offspring, why, the list would only stretch on longer.

Never again.

This time, he would defend what was rightfully his. To do that, he would lay low for a while and try to get the menagerie to bring their guard down, or at least not draw attention to himself. Not until the baby was born and he’d taken possession of it, anyway. Getting expelled out of this body would do him no good.

Until then, he would just have to make do with killing stray cats or the neighbor’s dogs if he got too bored.

 

[Now]

 

Lucifer lifted his eyes and looked straight into Kelly’s apprehensive ones.

“Give me the baby, Kelly. Give me my daughter.”

All the while Lucifer looked and touched the baby, Kelly had stared up at him with wide, tense eyes, as a doe would stare into the face of a still tiger. But the instant he demanded the child to be handed over to him, her stance shifted to one of protectiveness. Narrowing her eyes, she said,

“No.”

“Oh, come now. Surely you don’t think I’d harm my own flesh and blood?”

“You’re—you’re Satan. Nothing’s impossible.”

“You don’t know me, girl.” Lucifer muttered. “Just the label my Father’s other sons slapped onto my forehead in the gospels.” _And for what,_ he thought to himself. _All for something even God himself couldn’t control._

“Oh, I know you well enough to know you’re the Devil that crawls up our legs every now and then,” she said loudly. Her nerves were finally coming back to her. They unstuck her tongue from the roof. “You corrupt us and then drag us down to Hell with you. Makes us rape and—and steal and kill and all that.”

Lucifer snorted. This was unbelievable. So _that_ was what the humans thought of him? _That_ was how they blamed him for what crimes were theirs?

“Looky here, I don’t know where you did your research but there must be some terrible source-material out there.” He retorted disdainfully, unamused. “FYI? I was padlocked in a cage in the bottoms of Hell almost all this time, so I couldn’t have gouged you humans’ pretty souls out on a spit even if I wanted to. The corruption part’s all yours. Nothing to do with me. Oh, and the part about leading your souls to Hell? That’s crossroad-demons’ work. Making deals with demons ain’t myth, and you people have been doing it since the B.Cs. Don’t pass the hot coal around to _me_ just because _your_ hands are red.”

That shut her up for a moment. Kelly mouthed noiselessly, struggling to make a brave comeback against the Devil while still trying to process the bit about cross-road demons. Lucifer watched with crossed arms, satisfied with his own scorn.

“Then… you’re not…you’re not evil? You’re innocent?” She managed. He grinned a good-natured grin that did not reach his eyes.

“Far, far from it, darling.” He said, softly cupping her jaw in his hand. He leaned forward and didn’t stop until his lips were brushing against her ear, as if to tell an intimate, important secret. His surprisingly cold breath played down the side of her neck. She felt centipede legs crawl down her spine.

“I was the one who brought about the apocalypse seven years ago,” he whispered, smiling against her skin. “Remember when America went totally nuts? I came very close to ending everything. And the blood I spilled in the process? Countless!” He hissed.

Kelly shuddered as she detected the mad glee in his voice. She vividly remembered the strange news reports: the sudden spread of mass gun-shootings which had resulted in whole areas of ghost towns; the crazy Valentine’s Day disaster when so many people had died from inhuman gorging and addiction (her friend had died of cheese burgers); the alien malady that had sprung up out of nowhere (she had lost her uncle to that particular disease); the deadly spike in random body-counts and the sudden peak of insolvable crime-cases; hysteria and chaos in the religious communities; the enormous amounts of energy-waves no one had been able to explain. All of it passed before her mind’s eye, and only then did the full horror of what was touching her face hit home.

“Darling,” crooned Lucifer, mocking. “I haven’t been innocent in a long, long time.”

“You’re a monster,” she gasped. Tears of fear and fury trickled down her cheeks.

“My dear,” admonished Lucifer. “Whoever said I wasn’t?”

He pulled away and looked into her eyes. They were wet, and grey. Sea-grey. He looked into those watery depths of her pupils and thought they might have been lovely if it weren’t for their mortality. He just couldn’t see the point of it if it weren’t meant to last. If anything had held any meaning before, it was all fled and gone now. What was it that he’d said, back when he’d possessed Vince Vincente?

_“This is all meaningless! Heaven, Hell, this world. Nothing down here but a bunch of hopeless distraction addicts, so filled with emptiness, so desperate to fill up the void…They don’t mind being served another stale rerun of a rerun of a rerun.”_

His eyes gleamed forth grimly. His mocking lips became stern. Before he could say anything however, Kelly spoke first.

“Then, no.”

His eyes flashed.

“No?” He sneered. Kelly shook her head, vision clouded with moisture and hatred.

“I’m not giving my daughter so you could turn her into another monster like yourself. She will be nothing like you. She is nothing like you.”

Lucifer glanced down at her hands. They were gripping the sleeping child tighter than ever, so much so that for a moment he was almost— _almost,_ he emphasized to himself—worried they might leave bruises. He recalled the rhythmic thrumming of her angelic energy, tingling through her veins and nudging at his own half-choked grace; the warmth and purity he’d felt under his fingertips; the stark contrast between him and her.

“She _is_ nothing like me,” he mused slowly, voice low.

“And I intend to keep her that way,” Kelly huffed, mustering as much defiance to her tone as possible.

Not that it worked. With a curl of his hand, Lucifer started to choke her. His fingers bent inwards and touched his palm, crushing the air out of her lungs.

“Hold out the baby. Now. I won’t ask again.”

The command was cold and abrupt and brutal.

Kelly’s throat made inhuman noises of pain and desperation. She coughed, and blood dribbled down her chin. He kept doing this, clenching and unclenching her lungs. And each time he released his fingers, he promised himself that he would kill her at the next clench.

And all the while, Kelly pressed her baby’s body into her already hard-pressed chest even harder. Neither of them noticed that she’d woken up, and was whimpering and squirming into the blanket.

“Now.”

Kelly didn’t budge. For a split moment their eyes met. Grey met red-sheened blue. During that split second, Lucifer’s hand paused.

He waited.

Suddenly, there was the shattering sound of broken glass. Running steps were heard coming toward them from outside the room. He instantly knew whose it was.

He re-clenched his fingers and twisted the mother’s neck with a crunch, making it do a sickening 180 just as Sam Winchester burst into view, Dean Winchester right behind him. He was about to spit out a snarky greeting when he saw what the boy had in his hand.

“Vade retro—”

He cursed under his breath. Not again.

“Sam, Sam, Sam. I am tired of having you as my dance partner every time,” he cried lividly. He tried to make a wild lunge for the baby on the floor, but his meat-suit wouldn’t move an inch from where it stood. Someone must be activating a sigil as well. But he’d warded the whole place against angels and demons. Sigils wouldn’t work here, Enochian and Demonic alike. Then how—?

He snarled like a feral animal, incensed.

“Princeps inferni!”

A blast of blinding white light, and he was expelled from his vessel.

 

As soon as he was gone, Cas was beside them.

“The Generator worked?” He asked. Sam nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the dead woman’s body sprawled on the floor. He took in her blood-spattered mouth and eerily twisted neck.

His heart prickled.

“She’s dead.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

[Four months earlier—Team Free Will & Others]

 

“She _what?_ ” groaned Dean. Cas shot him a tired look. They were all gathered outside the diner he’d kept watch on Kelly. It was three in the afternoon and an aggravating day that did not promise to get better.

“I told you, she ran away from me. She drove away in her car,” he replied. “I never knew maternal instincts included volatility and misjudgment.”

“Oh, the symptoms vary from mother to mother,” Crowley put in sarcastically. “I see this particular mother—Kelly, is it?—will go so far as to ditch an angel with Luci’s spawn in her belly. I find it admirable, seeing how _some_ mothers will trade their own offspring with piglets.”

“Ever the humorist, Fargus,” simpered Rowena, eyeliners crinkling with a smile as she patted her son’s arm. Crowley threw her his trademark “look,” but there was no real anger in the expression. He’d gotten over this a while ago.

Sam shifted uneasily on his feet.

“Cas, did she leave her receipt on the table? Or on the food tray?” he asked. “If she left it, then we can used it to make enquiries at the diner and get access to her credit card and track her down.”

Cas nodded.

“I’ll go in and check.”

A minute later he reappeared with a slip of paper.

“She left it on the food tray. But will the cashier let you have access to the consumer’s card information?”

“And that is _precisely_ what suits and fake badges are for,” said Dean. Then turning to Sam, “we should check in at the nearest motel and change.”

 

They changed, drove back, flashed their (fake) FBI badges at the counter and an even faker case-story, got the go-ahead from the manager, showed one of the cashiers the receipt and soon Sam was downloading Kelly’s card-number, phone number, zip-code and address on his phone.

“She’s got two addresses. One’s in Washington D.C, near the White House—I don’t think she’ll go there anytime soon—and one’s in…Winchester, Virginia.” He raised an eyebrow. Dean looked over his shoulder.

“Huh,” he remarked.

“Yeah.”

 

By the time they’d turned over matters and were returning to the motel, it was fast approaching evening. Daylight had waned into a late, buttery, ruddy glow as the orange sun settled back to rest from its yet another road-trip across the sky. Dean could almost picture it leaning back against a cheap white recliner with black sunglasses and a blast of AC/DC.

Sam was just reminded of the embers of their most recent salt-and-burn. He looked up at the sky from the rolled-down window of Baby and let his thoughts drift toward the enigma of Lucifer’s unborn child. He found himself struggling with a conflict within himself, a conflict he’d continuously experienced ever since they’d learned of the child through Cas’s angel radio. He fell into deep thought, and was silent all the way back to the motel.

A rattling bump in the parking-lot was what roused him fifteen minutes later.

“Our girl’s in Winchester,” Dean announced as he flung open the door of their room. All three of them were there—C-squared and Rowena. Sam came in after him and shut the door with a squeaky click.

“Finally,” Cas rumbled. He got up from the chair he’d been sitting on, across from Crowley. “I was wondering when you’d come back. He wouldn’t shut up and I had to put up with his mouth.”

“Nonsense!” the demon exclaimed. “You liked that story about me and Justin Bieber. And the one about how you almost killed me because mother worked her mumbo-jumbo on you a year ago. Remember?”

 _“I put a spell on you,”_ Rowena hummed. _“Cause you’re miiiine…”_

Sam snorted into the water bottle he was drinking from. “Oh, don’t EVER do that again,” Dean growled sharply, glaring at her. “You just ruined one of the greatest CCR songs ever.” The witch smirked.

“Your CCRs and ABCs are nothing compared to the Celtic hymns of the North, my dear.”

“Didn’t ask you,” Dean retorted as he slipped inside the bathroom, taking his toiletries with him. “And it’s A-C-D-C, not A-B-C.” The bathroom door slammed shut with a decisive bang. Sam sighed. Sometimes, just sometimes, they were all five-year-olds in big-boy clothes. Or big-girl dresses. Rowena just shrugged and went back to her tea. It was only after when she’d taken three sips that anyone thought to ask about the important stuff.

“She’s in Winchester?” Cas asked. Sam nodded.

“We tracked down her address, and there were two. One’s in Washington D.C, but we both know she won’t go there. Not after what happened to her with the president.”

“Poor girl,” Rowena commented.

“And the other one’s in 36, East Piccadilly Street, Winchester, Virginia.” Sam recited. He’d already memorized it by heart. “Dean and I’ll drive there tomorrow and check out the location. We’re going to plant a spy-bag as close to the house as we can get. That way we can keep an eye on her without staking out in front of her house 24/7. Dean said he got that from Rowena.” Sam threw a glance at the red-headed witch. “Rowena, could you make us a multi-user spy-bag?”

“I sure can,” she said smugly. “Who’s playing sentinel?”

“Me and Dean and Cas.”

“Then bring me a lock of everyone’s hair . I’ll get the bag done by tonight. Time and place?”

“East Piccadilly Street, Winchester. Five pm. And…thank you, I guess.”

“It isn’t for free, dear. You’ll have to return the favor one day.”

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes. “We’ll keep an eye on her that way for…how long it takes till the baby’s born, I guess. In the meantime, we can return to the bunker.”

“Hold on—you’re actually going to _let_ the woman give birth? To that thing?” said Cas, incredulously. “Sam, Nephilims are forbidden. And this isn’t just any Nephilim we’re talking about, this is Lucifer’s fetus we’re dealing with.”

“I know Cas, but what do you want me to do? Kill it? While it’s still in her body?” Sam countered. “Besides, we don’t even know if it’s dangerous yet.”

Crowley turned his face from the window to look at him, while Rowena looked up from her tea-cup. Cas gave him a look that plainly expressed an opinion of otherwise.

“Well it _is_ Satan’s child,” the demon reminded him. “Kind of the whole point of this fiasco.”

“But Satan’s just a title,” Sam reasoned. “Lucifer himself is a fallen arch-angel, not a demon, and that’s why it’s a Nephilim in the first place. Nephilims are half-angel and half-human, aren’t they?” He asked, turning to Cas, who assented rather grudgingly. 

“Its angel parent’s grace is passed onto them through human DNA, making them half-blooded creatures—but they’re more than that. The angelic part of their nature endows them with superior strength, both physical and mental. They also possess telekinetic powers. I would know, since I was thrown around by one.” He grimaced.

“Well, isn’t that just nice. Was it fun?” Crowley piped.

“No, not especially,” he replied seriously. Typical.

“But do they hurt humans? Are they violent?” pressed Sam. Somehow he already guessed the answer.

“Well…no. At least, I don’t think they’re naturally violent. I’ve never seen a rogue Nephilim before,” Cas admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “They usually try to live normally, like the rest of the humans. Chances are, they’re abandoned by the angel parent and raised by the mortal mother or father only. So I guess it’s natural for them to hide their powers and try to blend in.”

“Which is why a baby Nephilim shouldn’t be on our kill-off list,” Sam concluded. “You wouldn’t be so against it if it weren’t Lucifer’s.”

“Then you are not?” asked Castiel. His blue eyes were piercing as they looked into Sam’s curious, green-and-hazel ones. Sam stared back, un-evasive.

They both knew that he, Lucifer’s custom-made vessel, had all the reasons to spearhead a spawn-kill. More so than any of the others. Chuck knows how he suffered.

He’d given the matter a lot of thought. His brain and everything he’d ever believed to be right had warred with the repulsion of his first impulses to get the better of him. They’d fought long and hard, for days inside him. And with each mental battle, it had become clearer and clearer that there was only one conclusion that his conscience would feel comfortable with.

“No, Cas.” He said quietly. “I was at first, but the more I thought about it the more I realized I was being biased. From what you just said, Nephilims sound closer to humans than monsters. And you said it yourself, they have a shot at living a normal life. They _want_ to live a normal life. You think we have the right to take that away from this one just because we’ve got beef with its father? For something it didn’t even have a say in? For something that’s not even its _fault_?”

That last part had come out more heatedly than he’d intended. A tense silence reigned in the room. This was a question of ethics, not something anyone here was comfortable with. Even Crowley and Rowena kept their mouths shut.

They heard the sound of distinct humming from behind the closed bathroom door, and the stopping of hot water.

“I don’t think so,” Sam continued, more steadily. “Not when it hasn’t done anything wrong. Not when it has a choice.”

Then, still looking up at the angel,

“Don’t turn something into a monster before it’s even lived.”

There was something behind the controlled evenness of his tone as he said this that enlightened Castiel. Suddenly he understood.

Why Sam cared so much. Why the youngest of them just might be the wiser one here.

“Sam…”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment more. Then the angel looked away.

“I’ll drop by later in Winchester.”

Then he was gone. Some of the tension was lifted in its effect, but was quickly replaced by an awkwardness. Sam sat there on the edge of one of the beds, hands resting on the mattress on either side of him. He stared at a particularly disinteresting-looking stain on the other side of the room without really seeing it. The entreating earnestness had left his expression, reducing it to a rigid core. His face was set in a mask. What it attempted to hide, exactly, was something only his brother and Cas would know.

When the silence drove itself to the edge of settling gloom, Rowena, having nothing better to say than, “Well, my dear,” made her tea-cup disappear with a gentle clink. Crowley’s eyes were on Sam.

“What’s gotten into you, moose?” He prodded. (Said moose remained mute.) He couldn’t tell if he was surprised or offended by this little revelation. To be fair, the Winchester had a point. A very good point, he’ll give him that. But Lucifer had made Crowley—the King of Hell—clean the floors of his own palace with his tongue. His tongue! He’d put a doggy-collar around his neck and shoved him into a wire kennel for weeks! Luci here might get away with killing thousands of innocents and bringing about the apocalypse, but oh no, he wasn’t getting away with what he did to Crowley.

And those were the exact reasons why he decided not to take sides in this matter. There would be absolutely no support for the preservation of the Nephilim’s life, but no definite petition for a witch-burning either. Wait and see, wait and see.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

It was Dean, dressed and toweling off his water-spiked hair. He’d read the word AWKWARD floating around the room in big capital letters the moment he stepped out of the bath. His eyes roved from Sam (what’s up with him?) to Crowley to Rowena. No Cas?

“Where’s Cas?” he asked.

“He left.” Sam said simply. Well that wasn’t much news. Dean tried to make a connection between the fact that the angel had left with the tension in the room and the abstract look on Sam’s face, brows slightly contracting with the effort. No one tried to help him.

“Oh, so nobody’s gonna tell me what’s going on?” he demanded, getting impatient. Had his bath even lasted long enough for something to actually happen?

Crowley pulled himself up from the rickety chair, preparing to leave.

“You should fill squirrel in,” he stipulated, before disappearing. 

“Well, I guess I should be going then.”

With that, Rowena too, after having collected their hairs (“I’ll have to get the angel’s myself.”), vanished with a cloud of purple smoke, leaving the two brothers alone. Mother and son weren’t in for a second round of arguing. Sometimes they enjoyed the drama, but other times…

Dean turned to his younger brother. 

“Well?” he demanded, even before the smoke cleared. Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“About Lucifer’s baby…”

 

[Three months and three weeks and six days earlier]

 

They met Rowena at exactly five the next day, near Kelly’s house. The witch had taken precautions, such as walking slowly up the whole length of the street and down again instead of standing dumbly in front of a specific house while waiting. She’d also covered her ostentatious red hair with a long, wavy black wig that reached down to her waist. Large, round sunglasses were used to cover her vixen-eyes. She’d even changed her lipstick from the usual classic-red to dull pink. Recognition by Kelly would ruin their whole plan of secrecy. Scaring her off again was the last thing they wanted to do.

“Boys,” she greeted as they approached. Dean raised an eyebrow when he saw raven!Rowena.

“What, no blondies this time?” He taunted. He remembered Rowena in a blonde wig and harry-potter style sunglasses—her disguise when she’d thrown him off his feet in some parking lot. When exactly was it?

“She looks ridiculous.”

Cas’s voice came from behind Dean. He, of course, was wearing his usual trench coat. No costumes for the angel of the Lord.

“Sam,” he nodded, a bit uncertainly.

“Hey, Cas.” Sam put on what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

Meanwhile, they all felt rather than saw the bitch-face behind Rowena’s sunglasses.

“It’s called prudency?” she drawled sarcastically, effectively stretching her Scottish accent. “You know, that thing you boys seem to lack sometimes?”

“Which you seem to abound in,” said Dean, matching his sarcasm to hers. Rowena just let out a haughty huff before proceeding to shaking her left sleeve.

Out fell a few spy-bags.

“We’re going to put this under every window,” she explained condescendingly. “Concentrate on the image of the house in your mind, and you’ll be able to see it real-time. Both the exterior and the interior, if you look in through the windows.”

“Great. We’re turning into human CCTVs by a witch.”

“Better than staking out in the car all day,” Sam interjected. “Your idea.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean made a face. If only they could set up a real CCTV inside her house. The ones at either end of the street simply weren’t enough. He would rather trust a piece of machinery than a witch.

After they’d settled all the spy-bags down (partially burying them in what grass and dirt and stones they could find), Cas turned to Sam.

“Sam, about yesterday…maybe you’re right.”

The younger Winchester looked surprised. Dean raised an eyebrow.

“I am still doubtful about this particular Nephilim, but…we should at least wait and see doing anything to it.”

Cas glanced up a little ruefully.

“I understand why you would try to be fair.”

“Thank you, Cas.”

The younger Winchester’s face lightened a little. Their argument had weighed in him considerably, especially when he knew he was likely to be right this time.

“Well, I’m not too surprised,” Dean remarked. “Sammy used puppy-dog eyes on you, didn’t he?”

Sam gave him a half-hearted shove. Then Dean turned serious.

“But you do know we’ll have to send it down to Crowley if it turns out a hell-spawn, right?” he warned, putting on his older-brother face. He too, had been taken aback by Sam’s argument the other day. He’d expected him to be the most active of them all to eliminate the Nephilim. But then again he too, understood why Sam was doing the exact opposite. He would respect his judgement for once.

That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.

Sam had to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yes of course, Dean, I know.”

“Well good, then.” 

He turned and flashed out his beloved car-key from his pocket.

“Let’s go home, Baby.”

 

[Three months and two weeks and three days earlier]

 

It was evening, and they were at the bunker hall. Books and scrolls and a laptop were strewn across the long wooden table in a chaotic river of information. It was now eleven days since the POTUS incident, and still no sign of Lucifer anywhere. No supernatural catastrophes, no mass-killings, no attempted break-ins into the bunker. They all wondered at his silence, and were not a little uneasy.

“Look at us, being queasy when we should be happy.” Dean muttered, elbows on the table. “It’s almost like we want the psycho to turn up.”

“That’s because when Lucifer’s not killing, he’s waiting,” said Sam, sounding stressed. “Maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention so we don’t expel him with the Generator again. He sure was caught off-guard by it.” He closed the book on angel-lore he’d been reading. Well, trying to read. One-third of it was in French and half of it was in Danish, and he wasn’t getting very far with it the rest of the middle-English text. He massaged his forehead wearily.

“Apparently there’s a big steaming pile of nothing in here,” he grumbled. Research wasn’t going so well. The only Nephilim on the internet that seemed to match with what they were dealing with was on Wikipedia, and that was only a small portion of the sand-bank, with no new pebbles in it. And it wasn’t as if Cas was an expert on baby Nephilims. Hell, they didn’t even know when it was gonna be born.

The New American Bible commentary draws a parallel to the [Epistle of Jude](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistle_of_Jude) and the statements set forth in Genesis, suggesting that the Epistle refers implicitly to the paternity of Nephilim as heavenly beings who came to earth and had sexual intercourse with women. The footnotes of the [Jerusalem Bible](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_Bible) suggest that the biblical author intended the Nephilim to be an "anecdote of a superhuman race".

Some Christian commentators have argued against this view, citing Jesus's statement that angels do not marry. Others believe that Jesus was only referring to angels in heaven.

Evidence cited in favor of the "fallen angels" interpretation includes the fact that the phrase "the sons of God" (Hebrew: בְּנֵי הָֽאֱלֹהִים; literally "sons of the gods") is used twice outside of Genesis chapter 6, in the Book of Job (1:6 and 2:1) where the phrase explicitly references angels. The Septuagint manuscript [Codex Alexandrinus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Alexandrinus) reading of Genesis 6:2 renders this phrase as "the angels of God" while [Codex Vaticanus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Vaticanus) reads "sons".

Lots of speculation about what was already known to them and nothing else. Other more inaccurate and creative theories included giants, descendants of Seth and Cain, Ezekiel’s “mighty fallen,” and “infamously evil men.”

In Crowley’s words, “blah blah boo.”

“You find anything?” he asked half-hopefully. Dean and Cas both shook their heads.

“I think we’re alone on this.”

“That’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet you dunderheads don’t seem to get the really obvious thing here.”

The King of Hell materialized between Dean and Cas. The angel sighed.

“What are you doing here, Crowley.”

“Being the wise-guy, of course,” he retorted. “Don’t you think that there is just a teeny, tiny, slender chance of Lucifer doing the same thing as we are?”

All three looked at him. Dean frowned.

“What, research?”

“My god, you are stupid,” Crowley rebuked.

“Why don’t you just tell us if it’s so obvious?” complained Cas, annoyed. Crowley made a show of putting his hands in his pockets and primly straightening out his silk handkerchief. 

“Haven’t you ever thought that Lucifer just might be waiting for his _baby_ to be born, too?”

He spat out the word distastefully between his teeth like cheap tobacco, making a face.

Sam tilted his head.

“Why would he do that?” he asked. “I mean sure, he’s its father and all that, but what does he want with it?”

“A Nephilim can be used as a weapon in a war against humanity.” Cas speculated.

“But if he’s looking for weapons, he could always possess an army general and get access to nukes,” said Sam. “Instead he’s just sitting around and waiting? When he could blow up the entire nation right now?”

“It does seem odd,” the angel pondered. “Especially when he’s infinitely more powerful than a Nephilim. The extra grace wouldn’t be much of an addition compared to more practical weapons.”

“But it would be an addition nonetheless,” said Crowley.

“Maybe he wants a chum-chum on his side,” Dean piped up. “Y’know? Lucifer the Fallen Angel and the Loyal Dog that would never betray him ‘cuz it’s his Own Child.”

“That sounds terrible,” said Cas gloomily.

“But maybe that’s not so far-fetched after all,” said Sam thoughtfully. “He was pissed as hell when God just left him and went off with Amara. He thinks his Father betrayed him again.”

_Honestly I don’t blame him._

“Maybe he’s counting on paternity to keep the only thing he’s got left by his side.”

“I’m not sure Lucifer has that amount of sentimentality,” said Cas doubtfully.

“Not sentimentality,” Dean interjected. “More like friggin possessiveness.”

“If he’s really planning on waiting for months on end just to get his hands on his child, then that’ll explain the obsession,” said Sam, chewing his bottom lip. “He did lose everything, after all.”

Everyone chewed on that for a bit. They hated to admit it, but it was true. If Sam and Dean and Cas hadn’t heard the conversation between Lucifer and Chuck back at the time of the Darkness, when Chuck had told them the truth of the nature of Lucifer’s Fall, the first words they’d come up with would’ve been, “he’s got nothing to blame but himself. ”

They all knew that wasn’t quite the case.

Ignorance would have made everything so much simpler.

Crowley broke the pause.

“Well, then. It’s a race, boys,” he stated. “Winner snags the spawn. Question is, how do we win?”

They all exchanged glances. Sam caught his brother’s eye.

“We’ve got work to do.”

An hour later, they’d come up with a plan.

 

It was this: Cas’s angel radio would go off the moment the baby is born as a massive amount of angelic energy is released into the world. That would be their cue to crank up their watches with the spy-bags to 24/7 and keep a close eye over the house. As soon as Kelly returns from the hospital, Cas would teleport the Winchesters and himself to her house, retrieve the baby and teleport them back to the bunker. Kelly too, if necessary. They would take the Hyperbole Pulse Generator (the Egg-Thing for short) with them, in case of an interfering Lucifer. They would exorcise him with it if necessary. In the bunker, Cas would proceed to “examining” the baby. He would check for abnormalities and confirm its identity to make sure it was a Nephilim and not some dangerous hybrid bred by the Devil. After all it was a peculiar situation, and they could never be too sure. They would monitor its growth and behavior for a while, and then come to the final decision of eliminating it or sparing it accordingly. This last step would certainly be the most difficult one, as sparing it would mean they would have to somehow protect both the baby and its mother from Lucifer’s grasp (as Cas put it, “we don’t know what plans Lucifer has for it.”), and eliminating it would mean convincing the mother into sense and snatching the first life she’d ever created from her (Sam prayed things wouldn’t come to that).

 

Far from air-tight, but as close to perfection as they could get it.

Dean stretched his arms and rose from his chair, yawning.

“We’ll keep hunting in the meantime,” he told Sam. “We gotta do something else than research, man. Before I burn my eyeballs out with dusty parchment.”

 

[Two months and three weeks earlier]

 

If saving people and hunting things were their family business, then that business was not flourishing much these days. Over the course of three weeks there had been only two cases. 

“Two!” cried Dean irritably. “Is that even possible?”

“I dunno what’s going on,” Sam muttered. “We usually get at least twice a week.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” The older brother ran a hand through his short hair. “And I feel like a complete dick for complaining about _less dead people._ ”

“Ha ha…”

Sam snorted without humor. He’d never thought their business would experience recession. But here they were, being suspicious over a slump and fretting about what the hell was happening. It was weird because, well, less monsters and less body-drops were good things. A brighter and safer world, right? Every hunter’s ideal?

But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something more to this sudden dip than _that._

It was only much later in the afternoon that they learned what was going on.

It was lunchtime, and Dean was flipping through the channels on TV in his room with a slice of bacon in his mouth and scrambled eggs balanced on his lap. Sam had already finished and was in the kitchen doing his dishes when he heard his brother call out.

“Sam, come check this out!”

He hurried up to Dean’s room. As he got closer he could hear the formal tone of a news report floating out from it.

“Is it a case?” he asked, walking in in a rush. Dean didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“Not exactly.”

Sam looked, and to his bewilderment saw the face of a very familiar looking girl. She had short-cut blond hair and a white complexion with a pretty smile.

“Wha…isn’t that _Kate?_ The college-kid werewolf we last saw a couple years ago?” He asked. Dean nodded rapidly.

“Shh, listen.”

Sam turned his attention to the actual news.

“At ten o’clock this morning, the body of a young girl lying in a forest was discovered by two hikers in Carroll, Arkansas.” 

“We were hiking together,” a man with a British accent replied to a question. “And then we heard this strange noise coming somewhere off to the side of the trail. It sounded like someone was shooting a toy-gun or something—too quiet for a real gun. So we went to take a look and…that’s when we found the body.”

“Did you see anyone other than the body?”

“No, there wasn’t anybody else. Not that we could see, anyway.”

“The body was identified to be that of Kate Milligan, who had gone missing at the age of 21 and has been so for the past four years. No one knows who the culprit is, or why she was murdered. The police are ruling out vengeance and random-violence, due to the wound being too small and too clean, but fatal. There were no visible weapons found on or near the body. The police are currently on further investigation.”

“Our next news report—”

The screen went blank as Dean turned it off.

“But she wasn’t dropping any bodies,” Sam blurted out. “She’s—was—a good kid, why would any hunter—?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean tossed the remote on the bed. It landed with a dejected ‘pat.’ That was all they seemed to know lately—their own ignorance.

“We can go find out,” Sam suggested. “You notice anything weird about that Englishman’s story?”

“Yeah, that part about the toy-gun, about the sound being too small for a real gun. No clue.”

“Exactly. We should go check it out. It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

“Alright then. Arkansas, it is.”

 

After finding out the location of the hospital where the body was, they set off. It was a solid five-hour drive to Carroll, and it was only after the usual rerun of Dean’s classic rock tapes plus a drive-thru that they stepped into the morgue.

“It’s all very strange,” an elderly surgeon told them as Kate’s pale body was pulled out into view. The removal of the white sheet revealed a bloody cut on her torso, right between her breasts. He didn’t notice the troubled expressions on their faces as he rolled her over face downwards. 

“See that small, clean wound on her back? That’s where the bullet entered. You’d think it was a puncture-wound, made by some thick nail or some,” he said, pointing to a surprisingly small hole near her shoulder-blade. Sam and Dean peered over her lifeless form, and sure enough there was an unusually neat wound there, clean-bored through the meat.

“So she was killed by a bullet?” asked Sam, glancing Dean’s way. They hadn’t been so sure about that. The surgeon nodded.

“Of some sort. Some kind of new gun, I think. At first I thought it might be something else, like a sharp poker. But then I found these lodged inside the heart.”

He held up a large petri dish, where sat two identical-looking objects. They were almost completely conical in shape, with sharp pointed ends and about one-third of the size of ordinary bullets. They’d never seen any hunter use this kind of ammunition before. Sam—with gloved hands, of course—took one of the silver cone-lets between his thumb and index finger and held it up close to his face. There were lines etched onto the silver surface, firm and decided lines that formed a single, angular mark. A very, very familiar mark.

He heard Dean mutter “son of a bitch” behind him.

The British Men of Letters.  

 

They had a handful to think about as they drove home that night.

Home.

That was what the bunker had become to them. Not the usual four-walls-and-a-roof home, but a better one. One that housed them and kept them unquestionably safe. One that met all their hunters’ needs in silent, ancient benevolence, a benevolence that had been once known to many other people. But those people were all gone now. The bunker had watched them fade one by one into obscurity, and had fallen into obscurity with them over the century.

Until a few years ago.

Now it had the Winchester brothers under its concrete wing. If the bunker was a person, it would’ve testified with a sniff what a handful they were. Always sparring with dusty old weapons and barreling through archives, splattering the “dungeon” all over with monster-blood and holy water, the occasional rows-of-jars-are-breaking accidents in one of the cellars, a few boy-mellow-drama scenes, et cetera and more. The bunker had seen it all.

But, like a mother, it would’ve added that the boys were a proud addition to the long-gone family. Two of the best.

Sam rested his head against the pane of Baby’s window. The country road outside was dark, and empty. It slid past them in a monotonous continuation, a straight and narrow regularity. Stars would be scattered across the sky by now.

“This explain a lot,” he mulled greyishly. “The drop in the cases, the sound-mute gun, Kate…”

“I bet they didn’t know she wasn’t their typical werewolf. I can’t believe we didn’t figure this out before.”

“Even if they knew they wouldn’t have cared,” Sam muttered darkly. He recalled how his ex-captor “accent in a pantsuit” had haughtily explained the BML way of handling monsters just before torturing him.

_“You drive back roads, catching cases at random. You get word a body’s dropped, you check it out, and maybe you even kill the thing that did it. But that person is still dead, and maybe a few more. But my people? We plan ahead. We study lore, and we use it against our enemies. Back home, every thoroughfare, every bridge, every dock, every airport has been warded. The moment a monster steps foot in Britain, we know about it. Within 20 minutes, he’s been picked up. And within 40, he’s dead. There hasn’t been a monster-related death in Britain since 1965 because we are GOOD at our job.”_

As much as he would have liked to argue about this inside his head, he knew there was no logical reason the BML shouldn’t do their jobs like that in Britain. It was swift and astoundingly efficient, and if that last part about 1965 was true, then…they a right to be proud of themselves.

What he didn’t like was how they were nosing around in America where it was officially none of their damn business. And how they’d used torture to convince a hunter into telling them information. Oh, and how they’d killed Kate, too.

_“We can do what you never could—make America safe.”_

_“Or maybe you tie them to a chair. Maybe you do worse. So, maybe…maybe you can go to hell.”_

“I wish those British dicks would get their asses outta here,” Dean grumbled. “Don’t like ‘em at all.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Just then, Dean’s phone rang with a belching _Smoke on the water._ He picked it up and glanced at the screen.

“Huh,” he remarked. “Don’t know this number.” One hand still on the wheel, he pushed the green button.

“Hello?”

“Dean Winchester. I believe you have something of mine.”

The cool, diplomatic tone of a male voice issued from the phone. His shoulders tensed up a little—a reflex reaction to a stranger who knew his name when he didn’t know the stranger’s identity.

“Who is this?” he asked suspiciously.

“Ah, I guess it has been a while,” the voice responded, with a bit more color to his tone. “Remember the Men of Letters guy with the fascinating toys? The one who saved you and your brother from being assassinated by one Jeff the president?” 

“Oh…oh yeah, I remember,” Dean replied. He turned to Sam and mouthed, ‘speak of the devil!’ Then he turned back to the phone and put it on speaker. He rested it in front of the wheel.

“Arthur, was it?”

“Glad you remember me because as I’ve said, you have something of mine.” Arthur reminded him patiently. “The Pulse Generator you borrowed.”

“Yeah, uh...” Dean glanced at Sam. “Do you need it back? Like, right now?”

There was a slight pause.

“No, I don’t think so. Do _you_ still need it?”

“No, not right _now._ But I think it’ll come in handy in a few—several—months. I’m sorry, but could we borrow it for a while longer?” he asked, trying to sound as polite as circumstances allowed. Their whole plan just might be resting on that thing, and that thing they were _not_ about to lose.

“Is it still the same case as a month ago?” asked Arthur, probing. The Winchesters hadn’t told him anything except to trust them on this—which he could only do so far.

“Yes. It’s a long-term case, but we got it,” Dean replied evasively. He glanced at Sam who was gazing intently at the phone. He could tell he had something to say.

“Well, it’s not as if you guys borrowed the only Generator around here,” said Arthur. “We can afford to share.”

“Thanks. I promise I’ll return it within the year.”

“Just promise you won’t lose it. That thing’s expensive.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of “rich brats” under his breath.

“Hey Arthur,” Sam called. His eyes were narrowed in an unconscious body language that Arthur wouldn’t even see. “Do you know one of your agents left a sloppy kill in the forest? I thought you guys were special-trained people with professional body disposals?”

“Oh, you mean Kate Milligan? Saw her on the news this morning,” the BML replied carelessly, as if talking about a morning drizzle. “Those hikers got too close to where the agent was for him to drag the body out. He’s lucky he’s got such phenomenal agility, or else he would’ve been caught on the spot with a weapon and a dead monster in his hands. But it’s alright, he didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

“Oh that’s great,” Sam congratulated him sarcastically. “Only it turns out the werewolf he ganked wasn’t a monster after all. We met her a couple of years ago and let her go, you know.”

Another pause, this one a bit longer. They heard the end of the other line go still. Not a rustle for a full seven seconds. Sam pictured Arthur frozen on the spot, with his phone held rigidly to his ear. 

“I think you gave him a shocker,” Dean muttered. Sam didn’t answer him.

Suddenly the line was back on.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Arthur asked, with all the incredulity in the world. A hunter, a _Men of Letters,_ letting a monster skip past the edge of his silver? If they were joking, it was a very distasteful one.

“What were you _thinking?_ ”

“It was _because_ we were thinking that we let her go,” Sam replied testily. “She never once killed a person, even when she had fresh meat on two legs walking around her every day. She was tempted every day and she never _touched_ anyone. But sometimes she got so hungry she couldn’t stand it. You know what she did?”

“…What did she do.” Arthur humored, albeit with menacing tension in his voice.

“She ripped out the hearts,” Sam emphasized angrily—triumphantly—“of chickens and _barn-rats._ ”

“The kid even practiced _yoga_ to keep herself checked,” Dean put in. “I don’t know how she did it—and believe me, I almost turned into a vampire once and it’s freakin’ hard to keep your teeth to yourself.”

The other end was silent. Sam ploughed on.

“We let her go because she was harmless. That agent of yours this morning? He didn’t kill a monster, Arthur. He killed a _civilian._ ”

“Alright, let me stop you right there.” Arthur interrupted him, all patience departed. “First of all, we didn’t know it was a vegan. We know a lot of things, but we don’t have the time or the resources to keep a personal record of every monster in existence in your country. And second, even if we did know—”

“You wouldn’t have cared,” Sam finished for him. His tone made his spite very clear. “You would’ve killed her anyway.”

“Exactly.”

They heard an exasperated sigh from the other end. To the BML, the Winchesters and their ways were incomprehensible. This, _this_ was why they were awful at their jobs. Why America was as unsafe as it was.

“You know what?” he said, fed-up. “Let’s have it all out. We—I—cleaned up another unfinished case of yours a few months ago.”

Dean, sensing the call wouldn’t be over soon, pulled over the car. Sam’s eyes flashed wider.

“What?”

“That girl you let off the hook. The one with ‘special powers’ who ‘accidentally’ killed two people with stigmata?” Something unpleasant dripped from his words. They couldn’t tell if it was disgust or a sneer. 

“Magda Peterson ring a bell to you?”

It did. A rather harsh one. The memory of a trampled, bleeding, abused daughter bent over a straw-strewn floor in the basement of her family’s house came rushing back to him. He’d seen her being forced into whipping herself over her shoulders. He’d heard her mother brainwashing her into thinking she was the Devil. Oh, the woman had had no idea what was really out there.

For what she should’ve received help, Magda had received scars and the misery of a title she’d never deserved.

_“Pain purges sin.”_

_“No, it doesn’t. You’re wrong, Abraham.”_

“She didn’t know what she was doing!” Sam cried defensively. “She was being tortured by her family, she didn’t know what else to do so she prayed to God for help!”

Arthur scoffed.

“Oh, so prayers can be weaponized now? And I thought the twenty-first century had nothing more to surprise me with.”

“Arthur, your people seem to be doing more harm than good in America,” Dean observed, a deep dent in his brows. “That was our case. Our case, our call. If we decide someone’s not a monster, we let ‘em go alive and they _stay_ alive.”

“Yes, because you’re so reliable and always make the right decisions.”

“What is _wrong_ with you people?” Sam growled, frustrated. “Listen—”

“No, _you_ listen, Sam.” Arthur cut him off. “You know why we deem American hunters like you and your bother incompetent? Why you are less than Legacies and more of amateurs?”

“Woah, who’re you calling ama—”

“It’s because of these things! These _exceptions_ you hand out in the name of and mercy and justice!” Arthur continued angrily, completely running over Dean. “You grant free-passes to the same species that feed off of mankind at the risk of other people’s safety, just because they didn’t prove themselves dangerous to you on the spot? Just because you _think_ it won’t prove itself dangerous for the rest of its life? What are you exactly? What right do you have, to make assumptions at the risk of other people’s lives? Or have you forgotten that little incident with Amy Pond, _Sammy?_ ”  

That struck a chord. Sam clenched the leathery body of his seat, fist trembling as it crushed the unfortunate spot into his palm.

Amy.

The kitsune he had saved from being raped by a bunch of bullies when they were teenagers. The kitsune who had saved him from being killed by her mother. The kitsune he had let go. The kitsune who had lived off of dead people’s brains to sustain herself since then, because she didn’t want to hurt humans. The kitsune who, more than a decade afterwards, had slain three people to save her dying son from an illness.

The kitsune Dean had killed behind his back after lying to him that he wouldn’t touch her. 

It had been years since then. They’d gotten over it.

But now, humiliation burned at his neck, and Sam was stung into silence.

Arthur let it stretch on for a moment. Dean stilled uncomfortably in his seat, remembering the look of betrayal—no, disappointment—Sam had sent him when he’d found out about it. He had lied and went behind his brother’s back. That had been one of the low points in his hunting life. 

Arthur didn’t know it, but this jibe was even more personal than he’d intended.  

“How many disastrous assumptions like that do you have to make,” they heard him resume softly, “until you realize that the grey areas you struggle so hard to do justice are mere illusions? Distractions and detours you simply cannot afford to explore? Boys,” he sighed. He sounded tired. “You give them the benefit of the doubt on account of such extreme minorities, when so much is at stake here.”

Iron silence met his words. Something crept into the air between them. Among all the unspoken thoughts and abandoned ends of strings, it pulsed against the roof of the Impala the hardest. It was so small and faint, it was hardly perceptible—but if they had to put a name to it, they just might have called it “insecurity.” 

How it slyly snuck its way into the most deepest nooks and cranes of their minds.

Just this tiny dose of that treacherous stuff was enough to deepen their resentment against Arthur. 

Nevertheless, they couldn’t stop it from dredging up unbidden memories of past failures, making their heads echo with cold reminiscence.

Lenore, the vampire that had lived off of animal blood her entire life—only to come begging to them to kill her when the thirst for humans became unbearable.

Amy Pond.

Tasha Milligan, Kate’s sister. After letting Kate go, her sister had nearly died of a fatal car accident. Nearly. Kate had bitten her to turn her into a werewolf to keep her alive. She’d tried to keep her sister from tasting man’s flesh, but to short avail. When it became clear that her sister couldn’t be taught to live like her, Kate had taken responsibility by taking Tasha down herself —but not before the new-turned had dug out the hearts of three victims.  

A bitter after-taste clung to their tongues. The ugly feeling had stirred the bitter dregs of a neglected teacup, one that had been shoved to the very end of the table.

It just so happened to make them twice as stubborn.

“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better about your black and white TV.”

Sam said quietly. His voice was lowered with the lack of feistiness. There was no defiance in him—he was simply telling the man what he knew to be true. Turning his face to the window, he spoke just loud enough for the speaker to catch his words.

“We just know how to switch to color.” 

“…I’m sorry to hear that,” the phone issued. Arthur’s tone relapsed to one of cool, diplomatic calmness. “Cannot say I didn’t try.”

“Yeah well, seems like you’ve wasted your time on us. We’re done here, bye.”

With that, Dean reached out and pressed END CALL before Arthur could utter another breath. Having deposited the phone back into his pocket, he stretched his arms and legs and shook himself. He felt slightly drained, as if he’d roused himself from a game of hours-long brain-teasers.

“Yeesh.”

His wrist-watch indicated a fast-approaching-to-ten hand. What a loss. He glanced at the back of his brother’s head, who was just sitting there and glaring out the window into the dark. He looked down at his still-tight knuckles, gripping the edge of his seat. 

“You okay?” he asked, feeling the ground. He sensed rather than saw the glower on Sam’ face.

Sam’s answer came half a beat too late.

“Yeah.”

The intonation was mechanical; Dean could tell his mind was someplace else. As for himself, sleep sounded like a good idea.

“S’too late to drive,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice, “we’ll sleep in the car tonight and drive home tomorrow.”

Seeing that Dean was ready to call it a night, Sam, as was customary, moved to the back of the Impala and stretched himself out on the backseat, his shoed feet dangling out the open window. Dean settled down at the front, and closed his eyes.

After a minute, he opened one eye and took a look at Sam, who wasn’t even pretending to sleep. He was staring at the grey ceiling 40 centimeters away from the tip of his nose. He closed his eye again.

“Night, bitch.”

A pause. Then,

“G’night, jerk.”

 

[One month earlier]

 

Time passed with little that was out of the ordinary—for Winchester standards, that is. For them, every day being Halloween and every hour a consort with the supernatural was nothing exceptional. Except for the few squabbles with the British Men of Letters and the sharp drop in cases, everything seemed pretty normal. No Lucifer, no overtly mysterious deaths (just the usual ghost or pagan god), no trouble at Kelly’s, and no signal on Cas’s angel radio.

“It’s likely that the Nephilim will grow very quickly,” he’d said. “Nowhere near as quickly as the Darkness did, but it will exceed human growth.”

Well, no surprise there. _How_ quickly, though, was a matter out of everyone’s hands. No one knew, and the lore-books seemed adamant on being unhelpful.

In short, there was nothing to do but hunt what scraps the BML couldn’t cover and wait.

 

If there was one good that came out of all this, it was that Sam had more time to re-watch his favorite fantasy films (he was captivated by the new _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ ) _,_ and Dean had more time to catch up on the latest series of his much-beloved Japanese _Anime Erotica_.

It also meant they had more time to argue and bicker over the most five-year-oldish things.

 

**Books vs Movies**

“Hey, look!” Sam called out excitedly from somewhere among a fortress of piled-up bricks. Oh right, they were books. His chestnut head popped up from one of the piles. Dean thought he could see a puff of age-old dust rise with him, but he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not.

“I never knew they read this kinda stuff.”

“What is it?” he asked half-hopefully. Another first-edition of _Busty Asian Beauties?_

Sam held up a small, thick volume the color of pitch.

 _“The Fellowship of the Ring,”_ he said warmly. His fingers affectionately ran down its spine. On the floor beneath his feet sprawled _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King._

“Remember? You picked it up from some lost-and-found and gave it to me when I was eleven. I always wanted to read it again, but…I think I lost it on the road or something.” 

“Aw, my feelings are hurt,” Dean teased. Sam flashed him a sheepish grin. He turned to the other two volumes on the ground and began dusting them off with gentle reverence. “Man, they’re legends.”

“Yeah, that PJ guy knew how to make movies.” Dean agreed. When Sam didn’t answer, he looked up.

“You saw the movies, right?”

“Yeah, I watched all of ‘em.” He replied, albeit with a slight dubiousness that failed to go unnoticed. He continued to lovingly stroke and thumb through the battered editions. The elder Winchester eyed the volumes.

“So…you didn’t like ‘em much?” he asked, trying not to sound annoyed. He didn’t want to get defensive over three movies like a little kid, but hey, _LOTR_ was pretty much the only fantasy blockbuster he’d learned to respect. They were different from crap like _Narnia_ or _Shadow Hunters_ —or so he thought.

“Well…” Sam deliberated. “I know it’s impossible to squeeze everything in a 500 page novel into a movie, and the director did a really good job—great cast and real good CG. He tailored the story well enough, but he changed way too much stuff. And, well, I wanted to see Tom Bombadil! And he’s the most colorful character in _The Fellowship_ …” 

“Sorry, who?”

“Never mind.”

When Sam gave him a derisive look when he thought he wasn’t looking though, Dean was affronted.

“Hey, I saw that.”

“You’ll know what I mean if you just read the book.”

“Who needs books when they can sit back for three hours in front of a movie?” Dean poked. At that, Sam directed him a pointed bitch-face. Classic.

“You _really_ wanna get an answer for that?” He asked, menacing look half-serious. Dean could already feel the geek-gage in him hit 90. Sensitive nerd.

“No thanks. Not especially up for a geek-quiz.”

He turned back to his You-Tube. And maybe the conversation should’ve ended there. But after a minute or so, he just couldn’t help adding,

“I bet the movies are better than the books.”

And then there was no stopping the flood. Sam snorted into the dusty parchments.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s because you don’t know any better.”

“Older brother, Sammy. I always know better.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying the books are better.”

“Oh, on what grounds, exactly?”

“First, they’re the originals. You wouldn’t know ‘cuz you never actually bothered to open them but the originals are _always_ the best. More intricacy, more complexity, more detail. Deeper, fuller, better. So—”

“So they’re boring.”

“What?!”

“I heard what Bobby said,” said Dean smugly. He made quotation marks in the air. “ ‘Did you _see_ the number of pages the author guy wasted on describing _landscapes?_ Why would anyone bother about what’s in the North and what’s in the South when the readers don’t even have a map and a compass?’ ”

“Actually, there are five maps at the back of the book. I bet Bobby gave up at the first dozen pages and never bothered to see what was at the end.” Sam shot back. Then, to shut him up, he stood up the piece of floor he’d been sitting on and stalked towards his laptop. He tapped out of the You-Tube video (“hey!”) and googled something very rapidly. A few seconds later, he handed the laptop back to his brother.

Dean looked at the new screen.

“Poll results?”

 56 % had voted on Both are Great. But sure enough, the majority of the rest had thrown their votes to The Books are Better.

Dean stared at the numbers for a moment. Then he snapped the laptop shut.

“Whatever. I’m gonna get myself a beer.”

He marched out of the hall with his nose in the air, leaving a smirk-lipped Sam behind him.

 

**Ironing**

“Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.”

“You don’t look too happy.”

The angel observed, stating the obvious. Then he sniffed the air around him.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, smelling alcohol. The younger Winchester drinking at ten in the morning? That wasn’t like him.

Sam sighed.

“No, but I bet my shirt is.”

Cas tipped his head a little.

“Your shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this another human expression? I thought I got everything by now…”

“Dean has a habit of ironing my clothes with beer,” Sam elaborated.

“Oh. Does it work better?” asked Cas. Sam look at him.

“No, it sucks! Now I’m stuck in the only clean shirt I have that smells like a morning-beer!”

“Oh. Hmm, I can smell all kinds of molecules coming off the cloth. Did you know the cheap beer you guys drink contains—?”

“I think we’ll be better off not knowing.” Sam interrupted, grumbling a little. Once, the angel had informed Dean about the various types of trashy chemicals his calorie-charged pie contained. Dean had pretended not to care at the time, but Sam knew better when he discovered the abandoned left-overs.

The angel looked around.

“Where is he now?” he asked. There was no sign of the older one.

“He’s out now. Getting groceries. Probably dawdling at the bakery. Which means that _I_ have time to get back at _him_.”

Thus comically stretching out the pronouns, Sam went into the washroom. Cas trailed behind him, curious. He saw him greedily snatch up Dean’s crumpled laundry from the pile. Shirt, suit jacket, suit pants, tie, socks. He got apprehensive when the boxers were picked up.

“What are you going to do?” he queried. Sam had an evil look on his face.

“He had his fun with beer. Wait till I get my turn with _vodka._ ”

By the time Dean was back, Sam had folded all his clothes and stashed it in his closet. Now he assumed the look of having sat in one of the over-stuffed armchairs for the last hour, his expression demure and nose buried in _The Two Towers._ He barely looked up when his brother came in.

“Hey I did the ironing this week so.”

“Yeah, yeah it’s my turn next week.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Chores in the bunker were annoying, but at least he got to sprinkle the “magic water” on Sam’s laundry again. He smirked to himself. 

_I bet he’s fed-up as hell about it._

He had no idea.

 

Three days later, they were on a case. Which required them to don on their FBI rook. Which required Dean to take out his freshly-ironed suit from the closet.

Sam was in his own room changing. He couldn’t keep his face straight in front of the mirror, childish anticipation bubbling in his chest as he yanked on is tie. All he could think about was the soon-to-come storm. And truth be told, he’d missed it. They hadn’t had a prank war for a long time now, not since the Tablet Trials. There had been too much to deal with, starting with his illness. Then there was his possession by Gadreel, then came the Fall of the Angels, then rode up the Mark of Cain, then descended the Darkness, then up came Lucifer…

If anything, now was the time to get back in the game. He was slipping the FBI badge down his pocket when he heard it.

 _“Samuel_ Winchester! _”_

Dean bellowed, furious shout ringing down the corridor. Sam sniggered.

“Coming,” he called out, putting on the best sing-song voice he could manage.

 

There were several more besides these things. Sam forgetting Dean’s pie and baking him a home-made one instead—which resulted in a disastrous calumny in the kitchen. Dean getting Sam hair-grower for bald people instead of conditioner. Betting money on a game of poker with a skilled Crowley and a clueless Castiel, and consequently losing two hundred bucks to the demon. Arguing over what type of creature they were hunting (“It’s a water-sprite!” “No, it’s the river-god Achelous!”—both wrong, it was a Kelpie) and almost getting themselves killed with a lung-full of murky water. Oh, and there was that passionate discussion over the listing of Netflix’s top ten sci-fi TV shows.

If anything, the Winchesters were siblings before hunters.

 

[26 hours earlier]

 

They were working on a case a day’s drive away from home, when a call came from Castiel. Dean picked up the phone.

“Cas,” he greeted. “Any news?”

“Yes. Angel radio went wild just now,” Cas reported. “You know what this means.”

“The Nephilim’s out?” asked Dean, straightening up on the bed he was slouching on.

“Unfortunately, yes. Kelly is still in the hospital and the house is empty.”

“We’re still working a case here. It’s almost finished, so we’ll get back as soon as it’s over.”

“Okay.”

“But if Kelly arrives before we do, just grab the Generator and go ahead. You know it works, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Alright, then. Teleport the Nephilim back to the bunker but remember, bring Kelly along if you have to. Don’t blast it out of the woman’s arms or something.’”

 _“I know,_ Dean. We discussed the plan several times now. _”_

“Just checkin’. ”

As soon as the call was over, he turned to Sam, whose fingers were suspended over the laptop’s keyboard, eye wide. Dean clasped his hands together.

“Alright, show’s on the road. We gotta wrap up fast.”

 

[1 hour earlier]

 

Dean’s foot was on the gas pedal and the Impala was whirring on her way to Winchester when his phone rang again.

It was Cas.

“Cas, did you get Neph?”

“Actually, there has been a…complication.”

The angel sounded uneasy. That wasn’t good. 

“Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.”

Placing the phone at the front, he shook his head at Sam’s “did he get the baby.”

“Alright, talk to us.”

“Kelly came back from the hospital with the spawn, but when I tried to get inside her house, I was blocked and teleported onto the street outside the house instead. There are wardings everywhere, I can’t get in. The spy-bags too, by the way. They’re not working anymore.”

“Wha—did Lucifer...?” Dean trailed, frowning.

“I am guessing it was him. Whether he is inside with Kelly right now or not, I’m not sure. It’s a probability.”

“What about Crowley?” he suggested. “They won’t matter to the King of Demons if they’re angel wardings.”

“I already tried that but he was blocked too,” said Cas, frustrated. “It turns out Lucifer used two kinds of wardings, Enochian _and_ Demonic. The two are actually melded together in some areas. I’ve never seen anyone ward a place like that.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” groaned Dean, pressing the gas pedal a little harder. “Looks like the place’s off-limits except for us.”

“No, wait.” Sam spoke up. “Rowena.”

“…Right.”

They heard the angel heave a sigh.

“No witch-wardings.” 

“Look, we’ll get there ASAP but until then, get her to help you.” Sam advised. “She probably won’t charge into the house with the Generator if Lucifer’s there, but she might know something.”

“Okay. But hurry,” urged Cas.

The line went dead before they could say anything else.

 

Rowena was in her kitchen/laboratory tinkering away at suspicious-looking green blobs in crystal phials, when she heard an instance of flapping behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Castiel standing behind her.

“Ah,” she said, turning back to the greenish slimes. “Something you want from me, dear?”

“It’s about Lucifer,” the angel recited rapidly. “His spawn was born 25 hours ago, but I can’t reach it because of the wardings around the house. Sam and Dean are on their way—they haven’t arrived yet. Do you know of any spell that can undo Enochian and Demonic wardings.”

“You’re very straight-forward,” she remarked, fully turning around this time. She thought for a moment, processing the situation. 

“What do you mean by Enochian _and_ Demonic?” she asked suddenly. “You don’t have to break all two of them to get inside, you’re a halo.”

“Some of them are melded together into one,” he replied impatiently. “Lucifer came up with an entirely different type of warding. Now, do you know anything?”

“Of course I can’t _undo_ something I’ve never heard of before,” Rowena retorted, frowning. “The only things that are going in and out of the house is the warder himself and anything besides angels and demons.”

“You’re anything besides angels and demons,” Cas tried. Rowena looked at him, unimpressed.

“As if I’m going to run such a risk,” she scoffed. “But…”

“But what.” Cas pressed. He was sorely aware of the time slipping by. The longer they were outside of the house, the bigger the chances were of losing the Nephilim to Lucifer. He now knew about human emotions well enough to feel a very faint tingle of anxiousness growing inside him, making him edgy and eager for action.

“Sigils. Angelic and Demonic won’t work, but the witch-crafted sigils might do the trick. They’ll never be strong enough to bring down his wardings, but they might weaken him, immobilize him in place—for a while, anyway.” 

The witch went up to one of the numerous cupboards that covered the entire surface of one of the walls. She opened one and began pulling some bottles out of the shelves.

“Witch-sigils need more ingredients than just blood,” she muttered, slipping them up her mysterious sleeves. “A little Saharan sand and…mummy-powder and…woops, the salt. And—”

All of a sudden, she stopped in her movements. Her hands, which were holding a jar of sweetened lamb’s blood, stilled. A thought had struck her.

She turned her eyes to the visitor’s own hands and looked at the Generator. She stared at it intently, as if seeing it for the first time.

“You said the Winchesters are on their way?” she asked slowly. The angel followed her gaze down to the egg-shaped exorcisor, nonplussed.

“Yes, why? Rowena, we don’t have much time.” 

“What we do have is a much, much better idea than just sigils,” she replied. She spun around and hurriedly started to pack loads of more stuff, clinking various pieces of knick-knacks together in the process. The sweetened lamb’s blood, three different kinds of pebbles, a couple weeds, two sticks of black bees-wax candles, a small oak-wood bowl, a pestle, etcetera. All were miraculously stuffed up her sleeves.

“I know of a spell that can cast Lucifer back into the Cage,” she explained to the bewildered angel. “I discovered it fairly recently. You’d think three hundred years of life teaches you everything but nooo, I only discovered it a couple of months ago. I memorized it in case we ever cornered the little devil, but goodness, I nearly forgot about it!”

Spinning around, she snatched up a chicken feather from the desk she’d been working on.

“If I perform the spell at the same time the Winchesters exorcise Lucifer out of the vessel, it’s possible to send the bastard back to Hell.”

“That’s—that’s excellent,” said Cas, impressed in spite of himself. “Are you finished?”

“Just a second! …There, now.”

They both disappeared from the kitchen.

 

The next second, they were in front of Kelly’s house. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. The street was quiet as always, with thankfully few pedestrians passing by. The lazy lawns of other people’s homes lounged in the ticklish sunlight, oblivious to the very possible threat just a few feet away from their doorsteps. To them, it was another very normal part of a normal day. Office reports and school homework were what weighed in their minds, not Satan or hybrid babies.

Sam and Dean were yet to arrive.

Rowena circled her way to the backyard, and then got down to business.

Conjuring up a small wooden table, she spread a square piece of rough white cloth with red Celtic signs squiggled across it on the center. On the center of the cloth, she placed the oaken-bowl with the pestle in it. Then she proceeded to grinding, severing, squeezing, twiddling, and mixing the many oddities she’d brought with her. Her hands were fast and nimble with the pestle and knife, centuries of practice almost rubbing off as artistry. In some parts she muttered an incantation in a low voice, concentrating hard on the words. The words were the important stuff. Every Latin syllable had to accurate, every pronunciation as close to the native tongue as she could get. When she was finished with the bowl, she lighted the two black candles with her bare fingers and placed them on either side of the cloth.

Then, she chose a spot on the wall and dusted that particular corner with the chicken feather. After that and rubbing a mixture of rosemary and Sahara sand all over the feather-dusted area, she dipped two fingers into the jar of lamb’s blood and began drawing in a sigil.

Castiel stayed near the front door and kept a weather-eye on the street for a familiar black car to swerve into view. He briefly wondered if it was possible to get into a car-accident at such an untimely moment. What did they call it—Murphy’s Law? He doubted its legitimacy, but now would be a terrible time to find out if it proved true.

“There we go,” Rowena breathed. She stepped back to admire her masterpiece. Everything had been done in fifteen minutes. The sigil resembled the shape and pattern of a traditional Scottish shield, round and crossed with thirteen lines that met at the center.

She was administering the last of the finishing touches when, at last, the Winchesters drove into view. She heard the car doors slam at the front of the house.

“Are the wardings down?”

“Did you get Rowena?”

“Our girl still inside?”

“The Generator.”

“No, yes, yes, here it is.”

Answering their accumulative questions, Cas handed them the golden egg as he led them to them to the witch.

“No time to explain,” he cut them off before they could ask about the little alter Rowena had created. Turning to her he asked, “is it finished?”

“Yep,” she replied, drying her hands on her robe. She beckoned to the angel to come up to the sigil.

“As soon as the boys enter the house, activate this by pressing down on it with _the back of your hand._ Not the palm.”

Cas nodded.

“As for myself, I’ll activate the spell.”

She looked up at “the boys.” Thick mascara and eyeliner framed her upwards glare. Both men towered over her, but the fear of something physically larger than herself had disappeared a long, long time ago, along with the title of “nothing but a tanner’s daughter.” Red lipstick effectively emphasized her next words. 

“Break inside, _now._ ”

Seconds later, the glass pane of one of the large windows was shattered.

The back of Castiel’s and touched the sigil, and Rowena started to chant.

_“Mah tay, ez loh, say tah! Mah tay, ez loh, say tah!”_

The flames of the candles leapt high into the air as the contents of the bowl ignited into sinister fire the shade of violets.

She continued to chant the spell as she channeled the magical force through the opening of the broken window, and didn’t stop until she heard the shouting and the blasting within the house cease altogether.

_“…say tah.”_

And then, all was silent.

 

[NOW]

 

As soon as Lucifer was gone, Cas was beside the Winchesters.

“The Generator worked?” He asked. Sam nodded, eyes fixed on the dead woman’s body sprawled on the floor. He took in her blood-spattered mouth and eerily twisted neck.

His heart prickled.

“She’s dead,” he said quietly.

Rowena joined them last, panting and slightly out of breath. She looked down at the sorry sight.

“Oh…”

Then Sam noticed a thick bundle of something pressed up against Kelly’s body, still partially wrapped inside her arms. The bundle moved and made high-pitched struggling noises, alternating between crying and whining.

Infant noises.

 

Everyone froze in place.

 

For three ripe seconds that felt like minutes.

 

The sounds coming from the bundle cut through the eerie atmosphere, jarring against their sharpened senses. Sam felt the nerves along his lower spine tingle and ache with something akin to anxiety. He had to restrain himself from a sudden, inexplicable shiver. 

 

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

 

It was Rowena who recovered first.

“Is, is that..?”

Sam’s legs found themselves again. Slowly, he tread his way to where the bundle lay. His shoulders bunched-up with strange tension as he cautiously extended his arms toward it.

His hands gripped it.

It was warm against his palms.

This gave him confidence enough to take in a deep breath.

Carefully, he lifted the bundle and turned it around.

 

And saw the most unexpectedly human face he’d ever seen.


	3. Chapter 3

The second Lucifer was cast out of the body, he knew something was very, very wrong. It felt different this time. That sense of being violently shoved out was the same, but instead of stopping there, he continued to hurl straight through the air with absolutely no control over himself. He tried to slow down and differ his course, but every time he tried to gain control of his movements, it was denied to him like a stubborn mule that wouldn’t follow its master to the slaughterhouse. He tugged away fiercely at the invisible reigns but couldn’t budge an inch of the control he’d lost in the direction he wanted.

And all the while he continued to soar perpendicularly towards the clouds.

What had they done to him?

Confusion coursed through his thick, airy form, and for what seemed like a long time, disorientation blanked out his mind.

When he thought he could go no further without breaking through the Mesosphere and crashing into a satellite, he came to a sudden halt. He hovered there for a moment. He felt his essence quiver within himself, in the emptiness.

Then, Lucifer fell.

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

Down

And seeped through the cracks of the earth and dropped gracelessly through the bowls of boiling sulfur lakes and the putrid fumes of Hell, into the Cage.

_No._

“No!” he snarled. He lunged forward and clawed at the barbed bars of his prison in a fit of primitive rage, tearing at the everlasting substance that gleamed coldly in the semi-darkness. They rattled and moaned horribly, but did not yield.

He’d been here forever.

Then that boy had released him. And that same boy had thrown him back in.

But then he’d been extricated yet again, he’d tasted that _freedom_ again, he’d been away from this cursed _hole_ and had enjoyed so many sweet, malicious, meaningless, wishful novelties away from this place. The outer air of the earth, so polluted by human activity and city trash as it was, was clean and fresh compared to these poisonous gases he was now forced to drink again _._ Countless years upon years of this place had hardened him somewhat, but they’d never yet failed to sicken him to the core whenever they enveloped all around him. He felt the old wounds crack open all across his being as the toxic air wormed into them, intoxicating, making all the ugliness of his anguish and hatred within thrive and fester thrice as much as sanity would’ve allowed; a recurrent disease amplified by incorporeal maggots, magnified all the more because of his recent departure from the seat of its beginning; an eternal imprint left my the Mark.

_Left by God._

Lucifer’s sight grew red.

Maybe, just maybe.

If He hadn’t left him alone again.

_If He had taken me home again._

Maybe all of this could have been naught.

 

What Lucifer readily acknowledged was the wrong and pain that had been inflicted upon himself.

What he also acknowledged was the sorrow he’d inflicted upon Man in turn.

What he did know was how to be hurt by the former.

What he didn’t know was how to be sorry for the latter.

 

If only God cared to see him this instant, his angelical Son who had been hideously marred into the sociopath he was now, rattling and shaking away at his chains.

But then again…

_He doesn’t give a damn._

“I see you’re back.”

Lucifer turned. Another archangel was there, sitting in a far corner made by one of the surreal angels of their prison. He looked the same as ever in his vessel—tired, wandering eyes that were mild and blue; sandy-brown hair that was clean yet disheveled from the chaotic quiet surrounding them; pale skin grown paler from an abundance of gloom; curious, expressionless lips that neither smiled nor frowned.

Lucifer was a lot of things. He was the Devil, the Morningstar, a villain, a son. He also happened to be a little brother to this particular being.

And something inside him stirred when he saw how broken his brother had become inside this place. How weak and subdued and discolored, mindless, even _deranged_ he’d become. He hadn’t taken well to the Cage at all.

Looking at him, Lucifer cooled down as suddenly as he’d fired up, and gave it up for the moment. It wasn’t as if ineffectual punches were going to get him out of here.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t love him.

“Hey, Michael,” he greeted in a quieter voice. “You don’t happen to know some magical way to get me outta here again, do you?”

“I don’t…think I do,” replied Michael slowly, brows slightly contracting in consideration. Then he said,

“But I do know something else.”

_It’s probably some nonsensical rubbish again._

“Yeah? What’s that?” asked Lucifer, not bothering to inject fake curiosity into his tone. Michael looked him—at the air behind his left shoulder—and said very serenely,

“You’re home.”

Lucifer felt his lips tighten into a thin line.

“This isn’t our home, Mike,” he said distastefully. “Home’s up there in heaven? Where you were before this goddamn hole?”

Disappointment flashed visibly across Michael’s face. His serene forehead crumpled just a little.

“Oh,” he said softly, gazing down at his knees, folded in his arms. He nodded his head very slowly, as if he was digesting a very hard mathematical equation.

“Right. This is the Cage. I’m in the Cage.”

He nodded his head some more, up and down.

“I’m in the Cage. I’m in the Cage. I’m in the Cage.”

Up and down. Up and down.

“I’m in the Cage. I’m in the Cage. I’m in the Cage. I’m in the Cage. I’m—”

“Oh _God,_ stop!”

Lucifer snapped. They’d been around this block so many times. So many times that he already knew what Michael was going to say next. His brother raised his blank, glazed eyeballs towards his face.

“I’m in Hell,” he intoned tonelessly. “This is Hell.”

 _“Yes,_ you’re in Hell. What took you so long? _”_

Lucifer retorted, annoyed. He hated it when insane Mike got to him like this; when he poked a sore spot without meaning to; when he just _had_ to make him say his own condemnation out loud; when he just _had_ to look at him with those wide, mild eyes and say—

“I wanna go home, Luci. I wanna go home.”

The younger brother closed his eyes, and breathed through his nose.

He hated it when he used his nickname.

It reminded him of Gabriel.

The image of the youngest archangel, spread-eagled on the floor and very much dead, flitted across his mind’s eye. His wings and halo had been burnt into the linoleum floor—but that wasn’t the only thing they’d burnt into.

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered, seeing nothing. He had to restrain himself from shouting again. Michael didn’t answer him.

Instead, he threw his head back.

Lucifer’s eyes flew open when he heard a metallic _bang._

_Bang_

“I want—”

_Bang_

“—to go—”

_Bang_

“—home—”

_Bang_

“—Luci—”

He was by his side in an instant. He shoved his hand between the back of Michael’s head and the barred wall to stop him from bashing his head against it again, struggling with him as he kept on going. Dull thuds rang through the Cage as he banged his head against Lucifer’s hand.

_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud_

“Hey, hey, hey don’t do that,” he chastised, grunting as the back of his hand was beaten into the bars. He crouched next to Michael and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Mike.”

_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud_

“Michael.”

_Thud_

_Thud_

Letting go of his head and shoulder, Lucifer raised both hands at the level of his eyes. Michael’s movements came to a sudden halt as he was immobilized from the shoulders up; he didn’t put up a fight. His emotionless, drowsy eyes were fixed straight ahead of him, on the opposite side of the prison. He became completely still. He stopped breathing altogether. It would have been very unsettling if it had still been Adam in there.

“Now, do I have to keep controlling you like this?” asked Lucifer. Michael’s eyes lifted towards the ceiling. They began to wander all over the place, gliding across the crisscrossed layers of confinement and the three visible walls, the floor that sometimes seemed wide and at other times seemed narrow, the occasional menacing streak of lightning that flashed just outside of reach… They slid past his brother’s face without seeming to recognize him before coming to rest at the tip of his own feet. It look a few minutes—or was it hours? Time never made sense in the Cage—for him to answer.

“No,” he muttered, without resentment. Lucifer released him and lowered his hands again.

“But I do want to go home. I don’t like it here…”

“Makes the two of us, bro.”

“Then take me home, Luci,” Michael pleaded. He reached out a thin, pale hand towards him. “Let’s get out of here. Luci—”

“I told you, I can’t!”

Crying out in frustration, his younger brother slapped away his hand.

 

Michael fell back to his usual silent self again for a while. Lucifer followed suit, not much up for conversation at the moment. Usually he was the one who threw up a racket from time to time and made sarcastic remarks at the walls non-stop. It was almost all he did when he wasn’t doing anything else, “anything else” being “grueling inside his own mind and becoming gray as thunderclouds.” When he wasn’t deep in some sort of gnawing meditation, he was talking. When he wasn’t talking, he was sulking.

And the receiving end of his antics was usually Michael. These days, Michael was more like a faulty, kinetic humanoid than the regal prince he used to be up in Heaven. He had been exactly that up until he’d cracked. After that first crack, other cracks had streaked across his being, leaving fine, delicate, numerous seams wide open in their wake. He hadn’t challenged Lucifer to a battle since.

Lucifer sometimes wondered if his brother was damaged for life—if an archangel could permanently lose his mind like this. But then he had to laugh at himself for asking such a stupid question when the answer was right there—himself. He’d changed into something he hadn’t been before, and he’d stuck with that change. Of course Mike was permanently stuck with being off his rockers. Wait, did that mean he was permanently stuck with being called by his nickname, then?

He sat apart from his brother in another corner, with his index finger pushed thoughtfully against his chin and the other hand wrapped around his knees. Not having the need to shift his weight every ten minutes or blink every few seconds really helped with losing himself in his own head. He let his mind drift into different channels: the latest installment of Sherlock season 4, POTUS Jeff, his mistress, his child, Sam Winchester, the odd weapon that looked like a painted ostrich egg, a new vessel, God, Kelly, his child, rare editions of the original Marvel comic books, his child…

He found no matter how far he removed himself to a different current, his thoughts always winded back to the subject of the Nephilim.

He found himself thinking about it.

Her.

His daughter.

The soft, clear, alien, strangely familiar connection between them.

It had only lasted a few minutes, that contact.

Yet he felt himself wanting it again.

That momentary rush of emotion.

That purity.

He was feeling the loss more potently than he’d like to admit.

Something boiled unpleasantly in the pit of his essence as he recalled the hunters bursting into the room where the baby was. What did they plan to do with her? Would they kill her, like they did with the rest of the monsters? His innards curled at the idea.

_They can’t._

But highly likely.

But if not...were they going to keep her? Or would they deposit her in some orphanage? That last one was ridiculous, considering their career and the baby’s supernatural traits. But if they kept her, then why?

_Every little thing I own, they take. Down to the very last ball of flesh._

Maybe he was the fool for letting himself tingle with hope for even a moment.

Hope?

What hope?

_I’m not gonna answer my own question._

 

Time went by, but even after this much experience in the Cage, Lucifer still couldn’t discern exactly how much of it had passed. It could have been ten hours, but then again it could have been ten years. But if it really was ten years in the Cage, still it would mean something different in the upper world. Down here, the mortal sense of time was dissolved into meaningless confusion.

Usually he just forgot about it.

All he knew was that he’d been quiet for too long, long enough for even Michael to notice.

“Why are you so quiet?” Michael asked, looking down at his fingers. Eye contact was a rarity down here. Lucifer roused himself, head still a bit murky. He looked at his brother with raised eyebrows.

“I thought you liked me being quiet,” he remarked. Michael’s gaze landed on a speck of ash on the piece of floor next to him, then moved on to the top of his knees, zoning in and out of focus every few seconds. He reminded him of a badly engineered camera. Lucifer couldn’t tell if he was considering an answer or pretending he hadn’t heard him.

“You talk too much,” he finally agreed. He slowly picked at a loose thread poking out from Adam’s jeans, expression blank. “But...sometimes it’s worth hearing. When you’re talking…about things…about what you did up there…with humans.”

“Right?” The corner of Lucifer’s mouth twisted up a little. “You like the ones about books and movies too, right?”

“No,” said Michael bluntly.

“Aww, c’mon. Tell me you didn’t like _Gladiator._ ”

“I didn’t like _Gladiator._ ”

“Yeah, never mind.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. He considered going back inside his head, but then decided he was sick of it. Screw his chaotic mind. He turned to Michael again.

“Why, you wanna hear a story or something?”

He counted up to a hundred sheep before he got a response.

“What’s…the story about?”

“Oh, nothing special. Just little old me and a—ahem—hot lady from the White House.”

Lucifer affected a playful leer, which the other didn’t see. Michael’s expression remained unchanged. He only gave a slight nod. Lucifer rubbed his hands together.

“Alrighty then, where do I begin…”

 

[“Some time” later]

 

“…and then she came up to me and told me she was pregnant,” related Lucifer. He let out a short laugh as he recalled his first sensations. “I realized she was with _my_ child. I’d created…life.”

At this point of the narration, Michael raised his head and fixed him with a stare from his place in the corner. Lucifer noticed how his eyes didn’t wander every few seconds like they not-so-normally did. They just…stared at him. They almost looked alive.

“Impressive, eh?” he smirked. “Who’d have guessed? And all I thought I could pull off was death.”

He paused. He chewed at that for a moment.

_All I thought I could pull off was death._

“Huh.”

_Guess not._

Shaking himself from his short drift, he continued with his account.

“And at first I was like whaat? Ain’t that what only Dad and humans do? But then I thought about it, and I realized I’d completely missed something else. I am—was—still kind of is—an angel. I know, that sounds so weird, but listen. That means that baby’s not a normal one. It’s actually—”

“A Nephilim.”

Michael interrupted, quietly staring. Lucifer met his gaze in surprise. Did he just finish his sentence for him?

“You created…a Nephilim.”

There was no accusation in this repetition. There was neither revelation nor dismay, disgust nor amusement. A tiny glimmer of interest, perhaps. Lucifer was just shocked he’d already spoken half a dozen words even before he’d finished with his ramblings. Usually his brother was the most negligent audience anyone could hope for.

“Yeah, I did. Broke another rule,” he bragged cockily. _“Thou shalt not copulate with apes,_ or whatever. But that’s nonsense, cuz it actually feels pritt-y good. Plus, the baby’s cute.”

At that, Michael’s heavily lidded eyes raised their hoods a tiny bit more.

“Cute?” he echoed. Lucifer nodded.

“Yup, she’s a beauty.”

His smirk softened, albeit very subtly. Too subtle a change for a confused angel to catch.

“She’s got these pretty, silvery, greyish eyes. Never seen anything like ‘em.”

He hesitated, before adding,

“But it’s like…her beauty’s _inside_ her, y’know?” he said, gesticulating. “I touched her cheek for a moment and I _sensed_ the—the energy, the angelic energy inside her, pumping through her.”

_The celestial grace I used to have._

_Before it got polluted._

“And it was warm…and soft…and I guess it should’ve felt really weird—and it did feel weird—but now that I think about it, it wasn’t even that strange. Vaguely familiar…y’know? Just…” Lucifer murmured, focus drifting away into space. The sensation of that particular moment came back to haunt him for the tenth time now, ghosting around his fingertips and resting on the edge of his chest, hanging loose like a snapped piece of cord just waiting to be taken up again. The end of the line, however, felt empty. Every time he unconsciously reached out to grab his side of the rope, the other side remained still.

The dissatisfaction was intense.

Michael opened his mouth.

“She must look like…her mother.”

His voice showed no signs of gentleness or sentiment. He was simply stating a presumed fact. Lucifer turned to look at him.

“It’s too early to tell yet,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Why’d you think that?”

Michael’s eyes meandered to the left, then to the right. They gradually shifted back to his brother’s face. They zeroed in on him, piercing through the assumed human form and straight into his true, colossal self underneath. 

“You said she’s beautiful,” he said slowly. He scrunched up his forehead a little in concentration as he found his way through the syllables. “But how could a baby…possibly be beautiful…if she looked like you?”

Lucifer snorted into the suffocative air around him. For once, it took more than two seconds for him to make a comeback. He didn’t admit it—not even to himself—but it hurt.

_No, it doesn’t._

It hurt just a little.

“The hilarious thing?” he said at last. “You just meant that as a genuine question.”

Michael didn’t answer him, but he didn’t look away either. He seemed to study him with those dull, blue eyes. Lucifer wanted to shrug away from his gaze.

They didn’t exchange a word for another five minutes/five weeks.

Surprisingly, it was Michael who broke the silence first.

“You weren’t always like this,” he got out. “You used to be…so…so like…what you should have been.”

Lucifer didn’t even look at him, and Michael didn’t seem to mind having a seemingly one-sided conversation. Or did he know his brother was paying attention, even when he was pretending not to listen?

“Luci was the brightest star, Father loved him best,” he suddenly chanted, voice almost sing-song. “Used to be the Morningstar, now he’s just…burnt.”

“Shut up,” his brother growled. His fingers twitched to _make_ him stop, but Michael ran on.

“Flowers fade, trees tear, rivers run dry,” he chanted, tone strangely phantom-like. “Nature ages… planets fall…and even angels die. ”

He blinked twice in slow motion, as if snail-mucus clung to his eyelashes. Dust seemed to gather in those grimy pupils instead of tears.

“You… look like…a cracked-up…diamond forged in Hell.”

“And you sound like a made-in-China toy walkie-talkie.”

Lucifer snapped, biting back a tidal wave of the nastiest words he could think of.

_Who are you calling cracked-up?_

_Who are you calling dead?_

_Shut the fuck up before I cut your vessel’s tongue out._

That quieted the mad prisoner for another moment. The term didn’t last long, though.

“What happened next?” he queried after a while.

“Ugh, why are you so communicative all of a sudden?”

“I want to know,” he persisted stubbornly. His tone however, was all shades of resigned and the farthest thing from stubborn. The contradiction was rather infuriating. Lucifer crossed his arms across his chest.

“Why should I tell you anything?” he challenged sulkily. Even as he said it, the sense of ridiculous childishness came tumbling down on his teeth, making his words falter as they skipped out of his mouth.

Michael’s eyes were beginning to wander again. He dragged his eyeballs round about inside Adam’s skull, up and down, and said nothing. Lucifer waited. Still, he said nothing. Left and right. He seemed to have forgotten all about their conversation in the short space of time. 

“Whatever,” Lucifer muttered.

“Kelly wouldn’t give me the baby, so I killed her. Then the Winchesters burst in and ruined everything by sending me down here again. Then I rotted here happily ever after. That’s what happened next and last. The end. Story-time’s over. Time for bed.”

Thus flatly coming to the end of his account, he turned his back on his brother, leaned against the simmering bars, and closed his eyes.

They both knew he wasn’t sleeping, though. Sleep was impossible. That particularly blissful escape-hatch was reserved for homo sapiens only. Right now, Lucifer wished he could fall into black oblivion for 7 hours straight just like the apes he despised so much. He wished he could get away from himself, even if just for a moment. He was tired of his own attitude-swings regarding his brother; of his alternation between anger and affection. He was tired of devising escape plans. He was tired of wrestling with demon-oxygen.

Sometimes, his own fury weighed down on his being like a great boulder, consuming his muscles inside and out. It actually came in handy most of the time—it made him feel stronger, more invincible than he already was. But at other times…it could be a burden. And that burden he had carried, for countless numbers of years.

_I bet I could’ve made an amazing dramatist back in Shakespeare’s time._

‘Or a Hamlet,’ he added as an afterthought.

He’d been still as a stone for more length than he cared to keep track of, when he suddenly remembered the palm-sized fissure on the opposite side of the Cage. Before the free-ride in Castiel’s meat-suit, he’d made a habit out of digging his hand in and out of that same fissure. How he’d fiddled with poor Sammy’s brain like that! The clueless moose had mistaken his message of dear old Dad’s. Now wasn’t that first-rate comedy.

Without thinking about it much, he sauntered over to the opposite wall and passed a hand over the bumpy surface until his fingers dipped in through a considerable crack. There it was, faithful to its post and just begging to be chipped open wider. While every other part of the Cage was impenetrably guarded against freedom by paranormally dense, crisscrossed strips and bars of exported-from-Heaven material, this lone crack defied its neighbors by providing a teeny outlet. His fingers lazily traced the rusty, ridged edges of the haggard crevice, reminiscing.

_Wait a second._

Suddenly roused from day-dreams, he bent down to take a good look at the hole. An alien type of scratchy, dusty mold the color of turquoise had gathered at the edges. He ran a finger over the bluish mold and sniffed it. No smell of sulfur or ash. Then he noticed how the surface of the bars nearest to the crevice were blunt, scratched, and melted into a worn-down hew. The change was hardly perceivable at first (nothing less than a supernatural creature’s eyesight was required), but the more he studied it the more clear it became.

_Rusty and haggard._

The Cage never became either.

Unless.

Flitting around, Lucifer started to examine every nook and crane of his prison with a new-found keenness. He found that if he paid close attention, he could make out the mold in several areas throughout the place. Most of them were hiding on the same wall as the crack was made. Others were sparsely scattered around on the ceiling and two other walls. Fine and scarcely visible, these turkey-gem-colored dust just might be the herald of a new era for God’s custom-made curse box.

Lucifer wondered.

Was it possible for the Cage to _decay?_

“Wouldn’t that be fun to find out…”


	4. Chapter 4

Strong arms supported her small body, lifting her away from the fast-cooling stickiness of the corpse that had been her home for less than 114 days.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Discomfort.

Warmth.

She felt a lot of things, tangled into small masses that merged and disappeared like momentary wisps of smoke. Abstract and confusing, she could name not a single one. Looking up into hazel-green eyes, she saw herself reflected in those strange, nameless orbs.

She had absolutely no idea what was going on.

She wasn’t even conscious of her own thoughts.

She didn’t even know thoughts existed within her.

What was she but an infant?

What was she but an unwelcome new-comer in this world? No one had wanted her.

Not a step she’d taken on the ground, yet she was already stained with a parentage she did not even know. 

And why?

_Why?_

She whimpered, knowing only how to breathe.

 

Looking down at this helpless creature, Sam’s expression melted from grim caution to one of sympathy. His grip on the baby became firmer.

“I got you,” he murmured softly, automatically shifting the bundle to his chest. He let it nestle in his arms, a firm cradle that his subconscious had told him to make for the unfamiliar weight. He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. All he was aware about was the overpowering _pity_ welling inside his chest, and the confusion in the baby’s stare.

_I never asked for this._

_Your mother never asked for this._

_And neither did you._

And how fragile, how porcelain-like, this life on his hands. It pained him that he had to question its innocence. To raise suspicion against something so defenseless felt backward, like it frictioned against his basest instincts.

Gingerly holding her, he turned to face the others. Dean, Cas, and Rowena were grouped together in the doorframe, stances tense. They’d been looking at his procedure with inquisitive apprehension, ready to spring (in Rowena’s case, for the exit) should anything go wrong.

“It’s… it’s just a baby,” he announced faintly. Dean’s eyes flickered from the bundle to his face, then back to the bundle.

“What, no demon-eyes? No—no nothing?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Sam, attempting an uncertain half-smile. “Look, it’s just a child.” He approached the group so they could peer down inside the blanket.

“All Nephilims tend to look like that,” Cas informed, not quite necessarily. His face told a different sort of emotion from the Winchester’s. “Not a reliable way of telling its dangers.”

“I know,” Sam replied, not wanting to seem naïve. “But at least we know it _looks_ human.”

“Yes, well, looks aren’t everything deary.” Rowena interjected, casting a mistrustful glance at the nervous lump in his arms. “Unusual eyes, though,” she commented. “Look like wolf-silver.”

The brothers looked at her.

“Like what?”

“Wolf-silver,” she repeated. She rolled her eyes at their nonplussed expressions.

“You people would call it mercury,” she explained condescendingly. “I forgot no one understands Renaissance witch-dialect these days. If I’d slipped like that at the time of the Inquisition, I would’ve been worm-food in jail.”

“Why didn’t you?” Dean muttered. The witch clucked her tongue at him.

“Rude.”

“We should go,” Cas interrupted before they could bicker. With a snap of his fingers, everything went black. Two seconds later, everyone was back at the main hall of the bunker.

Which wasn’t how it usually went.

“Kind of slow this time,” Dean commented, turning to him.

“It’s the Nephilim,” the angel replied, bristling slightly. “It’s energy is…very solid. It’s heavier than the rest of you, and it slowed me down. I did not expect that.”

“Still, faster than driving,” Dean comforted, shrugging. 

Sam was still cradling the baby (which by the way, was very light in his arms).

“Guys, what now?” he called from the table. The baby had subsided its bodily struggling, but judging from the small noises it made, it still sounded far from home. He kept patting its back through the blanket in an attempt to appease its uneasiness, hushing it.

“Such a nanny,” Dean jibed, earning himself a classic bitch-face.

“Now I have to examine it,” replied Cas, walking towards the pair. Taking the baby from Sam, he laid her on the long wooden table and went on to strip off the blanket wrapped protectively around her body. Her fingers grasped at the ends of a few loose threads as the cloth was tugged away from her, whining sharply as if indignant at such an uncivilized violation. 

Silky baby-skin the color of ivory was revealed. Rosy hands and tiny feet were laid bare beneath the yellowish light of antique lamps, freely lending their glow to twinkle in her eyes. The unnatural stark-whiteness of a diaper interrupted the natural colors of the creamy flesh, reminding the audience that she was still half-human.

“Oh great, it’s still human enough to poo,” Dean muttered.

“Cas, how’re you gonna examine him?” asked Sam. He hadn’t really thought about it until now. He eyed Cas somewhat warily as he pushed up the sleeves of his trench coat.

“I’m going to touch its soul,” he replied. Dean raised two eyebrows. Sam shuddered, remembering the excruciating pain of his ribs being split open right in half, of his organs being exposed to the merciless glance of an alien intruder. The searing unpleasantness of his essence, buried deep inside the core of his anatomy, being _touched…_

_The baby will never be able to handle it._

“Cas, wait—”

“It’s the only way,” the angel informed him in a clipped tone. Then, more softly, “if you’re worried about the pain, you’ll have less on your mind. I don’t have to penetrate it.”

“You—you don’t?”

“I don’t think so. Infant creatures are pure, in every sense of the word. If this Nephilim does not have any demonic traits, then I should be able to reach its soul without having to clear away a barricade of filth.”

“So what, you’re saying our flesh is filth?” Dean asked indignantly. Cas nodded without remorse. 

“To some extent, yes. Before Adam and Eve’s Banishment from Eden, you were pure as any fetus. The level of physical and psychological pollution full-grown humans possess nowadays is rather astounding. Consider yourselves fortunate, not being able to sense it.”

“Wow, don’t I feel lucky.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if Dean here was _covered_ with filth,” Rowena gushed. “He’s been through so much.”

No one appreciated the sour innuendo. Castiel however, disillusioned her.

“Actually, Sam’s the one with…a lot. Drinking demon-blood and having Lucifer play with his soul didn’t do much favors.”

“Thanks Cas,” said Sam, smiling. “Really helpful.”

“Are we going to get on with the spawn or not?”

Except for Sam and Dean, no one was surprised by Crowley’s sudden appearance. There he stood, hands in his pockets and attired in his usual custom-tailored silk black suit, complete with a red handkerchief folded neatly inside his breast-pocket and protruding out in sight just enough to be fashionable. 

“We gotta get those wardings up again,” Dean muttered disapprovingly.

“Don’t fuss, squirrel,” the demon retorted. “You only erased one or two, I barely squeezed my way through. Nothing less than a King’s coming through that doggy-hole.”

Stepping up to the table with a _click_ of shining shoes, he ran a critical eye up and down the baby. She had quieted by now. Sam wondered if babies were normally so calm.

Oh right, this one wasn’t normal.

“Not much to look at, I see.”

“Oh, don’t be so mean Fargus,” Rowena chided. “At least it’s prettier than you were.”

“Mother!”

“Quite the scrawny one, you were,” she recalled affectionately. “Perhaps I _could_ have traded you for five pigs, if only you’d been fatter.”

“Could everyone please shut their _pieholes_ for a moment,” Castiel raised his voice. “I can’t focus with all of you incessantly discussing things unrelated to the main subject.”

“You just mixed human-talk with angel-talk,” Dean noted. He held up his hands in surrender at Cas’s pointed look. The rest of the group held their tongues.

 

Eight pairs of eyes watched him as he turned to face the semi-naked Nephilim, everyone with varying emotions. Rowena’s slightly parted lips held a wondering quality; Crowley was merely observant; Dean’s eyes were wide with curiosity, expressive brows partly knitted together to knit out a look of guardedness; and Sam…Sam looked tense. Worried. That it might not work out the way he hoped. That the baby’s eyes would suddenly flutter open to reveal pitch-black, pupil-less voids. That he would suddenly catch fire from Cas’s touch. He sincerely hoped they wouldn’t have to kill him.

That Lucifer hadn’t imparted any evil to him.

“I’ll put it to sleep first,” the angel murmured, putting the tips of his fore and middle fingers to the baby’s forehead. They’d barely grazed her skin when her eyelids drooped down closed. Her face instantly became lax, and her breathing slowed. If they hadn’t known any better, they would’ve thought the angel had shot her dead.

Cas’s fingers spread out into a five-point star, palm facing down and hovering above the infant’s chest. A pale blue spot of light appeared on the place where her heart was beating underneath, a glowing shadow beneath his observant hand. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he moved his hand in a slow circle across her torso, up to the collarbones and down to the stomach.

“Female…”he began. Sam held his breath.

_It’s a girl._

“3.5 kilograms…98.7 degrees Fahrenheit…Steady pulse of 75 beats per minute…Rapid development of cells and organs…the brain, especially…Its mental growth will probably exceed the physical… its body is already six to seven days old…”

A pause. Then,

“Unusual circulation of fluids…probably due to the extra weight of the grace…50% blood and 50% arch-angelic grace…the grace, it’s…”

Here, another pause. Closing his eyes and stilling his hand, he gently flexed his fingers, as if to test the elasticity of the air, or the fluidity of water. Or the density of a cloud.

No one was being chatty now.

“Its—its grace,” he stuttered. “It’s much, much older than mine…yet so young…and so clear...” 

His eyes re-opened.

“…and pure.”

The pale glow of his piercing light faded into ivory. His hand lingered in the air for a moment, hovering. Then it dropped to his side. The pushed-up sleeves slid down to cover his wrists again. But his gaze didn’t leave the dozing child just yet.

Two blue ponds looked down on the lily.

_An outlaw from the moment of birth._

Meanwhile, everyone else was waiting for the verdict. Crowley’s hands shuffled in his pockets. Sam cleared his throat.

“So…”

“Did it pass the test?” asked Dean.

Castiel didn’t answer him right away. They could almost _hear_ the wrestling match inside his mind, struggling to make the right choice between prejudiced gut-instinct and a risky new territory. He remembered Sam’s words—

_Don’t turn something into a monster before it’s even lived._

He wished to be a fair scale. But who wouldn’t, in the same circumstances, find it hard to draw the balance between prudence and justice? Much more than one infant’s life might be in him to judge.

A few years ago, he would have uttered a silent prayer to God for guidance, a sign, some help. He would have murmured, _how can one single angel such as I, make such a decision?_ He would have believed in Him to aid him through the struggle. He would have wanted someone else to take the blame if he made the wrong choice and things went sideways. After meeting Chuck though, he knew.

That this was their problem.

Not His.

He turned to the others.

“It’s a Nephilim. Half-angel, half-human.”

A beat later,

“Nothing more.”

A collective exhalation and a sagging of shoulders passed through the group. The relief on Sam and Dean’s faces were visible, each for slightly different reasons.

“Well, too bad.” Crowley pivoted on his heels to go. “I was hoping we’d get rid of the thing. Perhaps next time, when the Devil meets another whore.”

Leaving them on that bright note, he left. 

“He used to be so sweet with his vocabulary,” Rowena commented after him. “I wonder where he picked up all that snark.”

“Crowley, sweet?” said Dean skeptically.

“He’s anything _but,_ now,” the mother admitted. “But when he was only a few months old, those were the good times. The only words he knew were _boo_ and _mama._ ”

“Yeah, wouldn’t everyone want somma that,” he snorted humorlessly. “Now I’m gonna set up those wardings again…”

 

It was then that the baby woke up. Sam, who’d been amusedly watching Rowena and Dean’s little exchange, saw her naked legs wiggle on the table out of the corner of his eyes. Leaving Dean to business and Rowena to reminisce, he slowly made his way to where she was lying on her back. Castiel, he noticed, had vanished.

_He probably needs some time to get over the baby._

Leaning over the stretch of wood, he grabbed the blanket that had been unceremoniously discarded on one of the chairs and quietly began wrapping it around her again. Gently lifting her up from the cool hard surface, he placed it beneath her body before just as gently laying her down again, this time on the warm softness of thick cotton. He tried to imitate the perfect bundle one of the hospital nurses must have made earlier on, but the best his inexperienced hands could churn out was a mummy-like sack, bunched up at the front in an attempt to secure the blanket from slipping to the floor. Fumbling with a sloppy corner poking out from underneath the layers, he held her in one arm as he examined his handy-work.

Definitely not mother-craft.

But it would do.

_Sorry, kid._

The baby seemed to appreciate the gesture. She’d stared up at him the whole time he was covering her up again, wide silver-grey eyes unabashed and unrelenting. Her attention was actually captivated by the long strips of wavy brown hair hanging down his face. They caught the lamplight and shone a tawny hew as his tiny movements made them swing this way and that over her own face.

Suddenly, she lifted up one arm, and brushed her oh-so-tiny fingertips against a few loose strands. They swung the other way. A second later, they came back to where her fingers were waiting. She gave another small nudge. Again, they swung. Her ruddy lips parted a little in awe. What weird and pretty things they were, these thin, glossy threads. Oblivious to the owner’s flustered stillness, she continued with the exploration.

Sam froze. He half expected the baby to start yanking away at his hair like a bell-rope, and for a minute, the dread of the unpleasantness of pushing down his annoyance that would inevitably follow dampened him. But that never happened. The baby’s touch was gentle, its experimental pushes never pert. Gazing down at her childish expression, he felt something fuzzy trickling into him—like someone had poured warm apple-cider down his throat. He didn’t know it, but he was wearing an expression of identical wonder to her own. His was less of ignorance and more of surprise; surprise at how easy it was to forget that she was a victim, too; how little it mattered that she was Lucifer’s.

Because she needed to be protected.

And there was only one logical way of doing that.

“Hey, I set up those wardings again. No demon’s entering without permission, king or else.”

Sam lifted his head to find Dean beside him, causing his hair to slip out from the baby’s grasp.

“That’s great,” he replied absently. Dean however, was looking at the baby in his arms.

“It—I guess it’s a _she_ now—she likes your frills or somethin’?”

As if to accent the question, said baby reached for his locks again. Sam chuckled uncomfortably. Then coughed, once.

“You, uh, you know what we have to do, right?”

Dean crossed his arms.

“Yeah,” he sighed in a rather reluctant body language. “I guess so. But are we sure about this?”

Funnily enough, that was usually Sam’s line. The younger Winchester’s attention, at the moment, was slightly distracted by the baby’s thumb poking at a shirt button.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s not like we have a better idea, right?”

“Right.”

They both knew they couldn’t just dump her in a nearby foster-house or orphanage. If Castiel’s prediction was correct, Chuck knows how the caretakers would freak out over her ultra-speed growth process. It might actually be comical if it wasn’t for the cause of the effect.

“You boys planning on keeping the child?”

Rowena asked breezily. Advancing towards the three, she took another peek at the clumsy bundle held to Sam’s chest. The baby’s eyes found hers and for a split second, they met.

“Pretty eyeballs like _that_ would sell like 24K diamonds at the black market,” she muttered covetously. She didn’t bother to try and make herself inaudible, which made the Winchesters doubt if the witch was being serious. She probably was.

“Do you have any idea about parenting, though?” she questioned, tone skeptical. Sam dropped his face back to the baby’s to hide his blankness, but to their surprise, Dean’s answer was a confident one.

“Yup,” he replied. “Got all the basics covered.”

Sam looked up at him.

“You do?” he asked, looking as taken aback as Rowena. Dean glanced at him. He had this strange expression on his face that was oddly full of…meaning.

“Milk, diapers, patting its back after feeding, the whole nine yard.”

“How—?”

Sam was about to ask him _how do you know all that stuff_ when he stopped short. He took a minute to let it sink in.

He was six months old when their house burned to the ground.

“Oh.”

Suddenly, he didn’t have to ask.

He’d been a _baby_ in his brother’s arms from the very beginning of their family-drama. Dean had literally carried him out of the fiery disaster. He’d probably carried him around like that for a long time after that.

“You were a handful for me back then,” said Dean quietly, looking at his younger brother with a deep, smile-less sort of affection. It was the kind of emotion that he couldn’t afford to feel too strongly or too often, even though it was there all the time. “Dad was away a lot, y’know? I had to do what he would’ve done if it hadn’t been for…”

Sam shifted slightly, and Dean leaned against a pillar.

“Anyway,” he continued hastily. “I fed you out of a bottle at the back of the Impala and—” he laughed a little, “—changed your diapers on ratty motel sofas for years. Washing you was an issue, too. The hot water was always runnin’ out before I could get rid of all the soap suds. Ended up with you catching cold every January. I hated it when you did that, all that coughing and snotting and whatnot. Got me fussy as hell when you got feverish.”

_Not to mention how you scared the crap out of me when you caught the flu for the first time._

Sam listened. The back of his neck felt hot and there was a lump in his throat that was making his heart feel swollen. His brother wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“When you were crying, whoa,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Could be anything out of a number of things; food, shit, or nap-time.”

That jerked a smile out of Sam’s mouth.

“Must’ve been hard taking care of me,” he muttered in a low voice, ducking his head in embarrassment. He’d known all along that Dean always had his back; that he was the closest person he had in his life as a sibling and a friend; sure, they got on each other’s nerves every now and then, but wasn’t that what every relationship went through? And in addition to those things, he’d already known his brother had taken on the role of a father-figure as well in their earlier years.

It was just so easy to forget how long things had been that way. So much so that he often found himself taking the things Dean had given him in the past for granted. Only now was he reminded yet again of the full _immensity_ of what Dean had had on his shoulders since he was four.

_Me._

He suddenly felt the urge to say sorry and say thank you, all at once. Dean was making him feel like an overgrown puppy.

“So yeah,” said the older Winchester, lifting his chin up at Rowena. “I do have an idea about parenting.”

The witch opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Well,” she managed at last. “You two have quite the history, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” replied Sam.

“Yeah, we do.”

 

From then on, it was a busy week. Without Lucifer to deal with and much fewer hunts to go on, it was a time of domestic lessons and mishap, especially for Sam. He was the most eager to help the baby, but he simply lacked the experience to do the job in flying colors. Lucky for him, he had Dean to back him up—from the front. As much as Dean was still reconciling himself to the fact they were actually, really about to foster the Devil’s child, he couldn’t find it in himself to abandon his brother in the miseries of child-caring. It would be too much like the way it had been with him and dad. John had barely taught him the basics before throwing himself into hunting. Those first few weeks had been rough on both him and his little brother. It didn’t have to be that way for Sam.

He never told this to anyone: but secretly, on occasions, when Sammy took down an especially large werewolf all by himself or got laid (finally!) by an especially hot chic, he felt a surge of almost parental pride for him. That didn’t mean he felt like a _mom_ or something. God, no. It was just that he didn’t know of anything strong enough to compare his filial, almost agapeic love to other than the devotional bond between mother and babe. Not an accurate comparison, but close enough. Deep down though, Dean knew his relationship with Sammy could never be described as wholesome and normal as _that._

This _need_ to look out for each other could be as draining and unhealthy as cocaine—it was an obsessive addiction, and they’d payed every sort of price to indulge in it. Lisa’s words came floating back into his mind.

_You two have the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing I’ve ever seen._

Yeah, no one was denying the freakishness here.

But what the hell.

They had work to do.

 

**Shopping**

An hour later, they were walking down the baby-equipment aisle in the nearby supermarket, with Sam pushing the borrowed stroller. Their new bunkmate was strapped inside, and the best part about all this was that she wasn’t making a wailing fuss. Remembering their last encounter with an infant a few years back had made the Winchesters slightly apprehensive of this excursion, but seeing how quiet a little girl she was, they were able to relax a bit.

“Diapers?”

“Check.”

“Baby formula?”

“Isn’t baby powder the same thing?”

“I think that’s the stuff you put on their butts.”

“Oh great, I grabbed the wrong one then. We gotta put it back.”

“Wow, you almost fed butt-powder to the baby,” said Dean, rolling his eyes. Sam shot him a look. He was tempted to say something along the lines of _says the one who tried to get me to eat dirt when I was five,_ but chose to ignore the jibe. Instead,

“We should look at some baby-clothes,” he suggested. “We don’t have anything small enough to fit her.”

That would take a toll on their credit cards but hey, what could they do? It wasn’t as if they could tailor out panties and jackets small enough for the baby from their worn flannel. Dean remembered how kiddie-Sam always used to wear t-shirts at least twice his size, courtesy of their father and himself.

“Yeah, we should.”

A few minutes later they were at the clothing corner. Everything went well from jacket to socks, until they came to the shoes. Soon, they were arguing over a variety of miniscule footwear.

It started with Dean dumping a pair of little cowboy boots into their cart. It was made of fake sandy-brown leather with ends that looked far too pointed to be comfortable. Sam, ever the careful one, immediately rejected it.

“Uh-uh,” he said, lifting them out with a finger and dumping them back into Dean’s hands. “Too narrow and too stiff. We have to find something more comfy.”

“Aw, c’mon Sammy,” Dean pouted. “Don’t you want a cowgirl?”

“No,” he replied, bitch-face number 45 coming right up. “I want her to be safe.”

“As if she’ll hurt herself with _these_.”

“Oh, her toes will be littered with blisters after _those._ ”

“It’s not as if the baby’s gonna hike up a mountain!” Dean argued.

“You just want this for your little ‘Wild West Collection!’” Sam accused. “You’ve got what, old pistols from garage sales and second-hand Clint Eastwood movie posters?”

“Woah, that’s a jump. Not true. And those aren’t any old pistols, they’re authentic!”

“Yeah right,” Sam snorted, blowing out a laugh through his nose. “Authentic or not, these have to go.”

And with that, he turned to look at the sneakers, leaving an air of finality between them.

For a moment it seemed as though Dean was never going to budge. But once he felt the boots in his hands a second time, they did feel a little stiff and hard to the touch. Bleh. In cases like these, he hated it when “prissy Mr. Stanford” was right.

“Bitch,” he grumbled, reluctantly putting them back on the rack.

“Jerk,” Sam muttered back easily. He did, however, let him choose the color among the sneakers. Black with white stripes seemed to work for him.

If Bobby had still been around, he would’ve chewed them out for bickering “like an old married-couple.” It turned out he wasn’t the only one.

It happened when they were at the counter. They were unloading their carts to pay for the stuff, when the cashier—a cheery, twenty-something-old young woman—commented on the baby.

“Pretty eyes,” she said with a smile, picking up a box of pie from their pile. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Sam replied, smiling back. It felt so strange, a third-person treating her like she was _his_ daughter. A glance at Dean, who was trying to figure out which card they should use this time, showed that he was weirded out as well. He was still adjusting to it when she asked,

“Is she yours?”

Sam, who’d been vaguely wondering wouldn’t using cash be wiser after their recent scam at the grocery store, missed the sidelong glance she gave his brother.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, pulling himself out of Dean’s wallet. “She’s adopted—came along really recently.”

“Oh, congratulations!” she beamed. “And that’ll be 50 dollars and 10 cents.”

If Sam missed it the first time, he didn’t miss how she seemed to address the both of them now. Realizing what she was thinking, he opened his mouth to explain away the little misunderstanding. Dean however, beat him to it.

“He and his boyfriend made a good choice,” he said, winking at her. “He never shuts up to me about how excited they are.”

The cashier blinked.

Then she realized her “mistake.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s great,” she faltered, tripping over her words. She started to blush, and Sam could sympathize—his ears were burning as well. Dean of course, was all cool and casual all the way out the automatic double doors and to the parking lot. Once they were outside, a hard _thwack_ was landed on his back that didn’t even make him flinch.

“Thanks a lot, man,” said Sam sarcastically from behind.

“Any time, Sam-eh. Any time.”

Rolling in the Impala back home, they were both reminded of the numerous similar incidents back in the days when they were still moving around motel to motel on the road. Sam wrinkled his nose at a couple of very specific memories.

_Hilarious._

 

**Feeding**

Dean was online looking for a case. It was a lazy afternoon (just after lunch) with nothing to do but loll around his room. Those “British dicks” were showing no sign of leaving, and judging by the lack of bump-in-the-night catastrophes around town, they weren’t slacking their campaign in the U.S. either. Sighing, he closed Sam’s laptop with a dull snap. Yup, nada. He would chill himself out with a beer and popcorn and season 5 of Game of Thrones instead.

“Dude, you wanna watch GT?”

He hollered down the hall, not bothering to get off his bed. He was straining an arm towards the stack of rented DVDs in the corner, when a shout made him jerk it right back in.

“Dean!”

It was Sam. Sensing a faint trace of panic in the exclamation, he immediately jumped up from the sheets, grabbed a pistol off the wall and ran out of his room. As he took off down the corridor, a string of meaningless sirens streamed into one ear and out the other.

_Is it an intruder is it a demon is it a BML I think it came from the main hall or was it the kitchen or did he just set the stove on fire again_

Pulling a sharp turn around the corner, he smacked right into his brother, face first. He had to pretend his nose wasn’t stinging.

“Wha—what’s going on?” he demanded, but Sam was already talking.

“Dean, I think something’s wrong with the baby,” he rushed out, eyes wide with worry.

“Wha—”

“I think you should check it out.”

“Sam, what’s going on? Did it finally hulk out or something?”

All but dragging him down the corridor, Sam began to talk more coherently.

“I, uh, fed her some formula out of the bottle,” he explained. “I checked the expiration date and appropriate temperature and measurements and everything, but half an hour later, she threw it up. I mean, she looked fine to me the whole time, but…”

Entering the main hall, he swiftly lead the way to the table. There she was, sitting in the middle with a napkin hanging down her front. There was a small, pale, gooey stain on it that looked like what might have been milk once upon a time.

“So. Indigestion or stomach flu?” he asked anxiously.

For a second, Dean blinked at the baby. Then he blinked at Sam. Then his eyelids drooped down in an expression of utter exasperation. To the younger one’s confusion, he didn’t seem a least bit worried.

“Dude,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t know anything about babies, do you?”

Now it was Sam’s turn to blink.

“What?” he said stupidly.

“It’s _normal_ for babies to spit up after meals,” Dean replied. “You said she was fine, right?”

“Wasn’t even crying.”

“Then it ain’t vomiting, it’s just a reflux. A real pain in the ass for a few months, but it goes away. Nothin’ serious.”

Thus sagely enlightening his little brother, he turned to head back to his room. But before disappearing out of sight, he paused.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time when you threw up all over my AC/DC shirt? I was holding you and you were crying, and then you suddenly tossed your cookies down the logo.”

“Oh no,” Sam chuckled. Knowing how Dean treasured that particular merchandise, he figured he’d got a good rapping on the head. “What’d you do?”

“Wiped your smelly little mouth first,” Dean replied matter of factly. Sam made a face. “Then I stripped and got to work. God, it took forever to wash it all out. You couldn’t’ve been more than two and you were sick, so I couldn’t even give you a spanking.”

“I bet you wished you could.”

“Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “But because I’m such a saint, I let you off the hook. Don’t go thinking you’ll get away so easily the next time you chuck it up on me, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam laughed.

 

**Diapers**

 

The first time Sam first changed the baby’s diaper, he felt his heart jump into his mouth because of the sheer _blackness_ of its content. The splat of the diaper’s dirty bounty was so tar-like and sticky that for a moment he feared it was some demonic ectoplasm issued out at last through the behind of Lucifer’s child. His initial thoughts went to the knowledgeable Dean, and he was about to call out to him when he thought the better of it and stopped himself. If this was just some other normality of infants, he didn’t want to look so clueless as he did the last time. Nope. He would have to rely on his third-best friend (Dean and his laptop were on the top two list) in his jeans pocket.

He pulled out his phone and tapped into Google. Who needs embarrassing oral advice when you could surf the web for answers?

Hmm. [www.babycenter.com](http://www.babycenter.com) was pretty helpful. So much detail! By the end of his research he knew all the colors of the realm of baby-poo and their health rates. He didn’t exactly feel too clean with the knowledge (and the vivid imagery) floating around inside his head, but at least he knew now that the baby was okay.

But now he had to change her diaper. He’d never given much thought to it, but now that he actually got his hands on clean diapers, he found he didn’t know how exactly he should proceed.

Again with [www.babycenter.com](http://www.babycenter.com). Wow, there were photo guides with detailed texts for clueless first-timers. Resting his phone next to him, his eyes went back and forth between the clean diaper in his hand and the screen with the professional, kindly instructions. He took his time, making sure he followed every word exactly as it was stated.

“Slow-poke.”

Sam jumped as Dean’s voice popped up behind him. Turning around, he saw his brother’s derisive face.

“You look like a poor single bastard without a wife.”

“You’re free to replace me any time you like, Dean,” he retorted. “Seeing how experienced you are…”

“Nah, I just wanted to see you suffer.”

“So supportive.”

Closing the two tabs on each side of the clean diaper, he rolled up the dirty one and threw it into the trash can. He was washing his hands in the kitchen when Dean decided it was the opportune moment to mortify him.

“You really knew how to stink up the joint when you were little, you know!” he yelled out from the hall. “When you were like, one, whew!” He shook his head, tut-tutting.

“Like you never went through all that!” Sam shot back from the sink.

“Did I tell you you once peed on the motel sheets and dad had to—”

“Shut up, jerk!”

Thankfully, Dean took the hint and did. But that didn’t stop him from adding under his breath,

“Too bitchy to take a joke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to my total lack of information on baby-sitting, I had to do a LOT of research on this one. I think it was worth it, tho :)


	5. Chapter 5

8 days and 11 hours since the “examination” was all it took Castiel and Crowley—yes, both of them—to drop by the bunker again.

“Hello boys. Do you two ever wear something other than flannel?”

The demon asked as soon as he was visible. It was his way of cordial greeting, specially reserved for the Winchesters. He would never admit it, not in a thousand years, but it was a sort of twisted, grudging endearment on his part.

“Not so nice to see you too,” Sam greeted back, blatantly ignoring the insult. Then he turned to Cas.

“Why is he here?”

“He has some…news.”

The angel cast a disapproving glance at Crowley, as if he regretted the messenger had to be the king of Hell. The demon put his hands in his pockets and elevated his chin a little, indicating an air of much indulged self-importance. Cas let out a small sigh.

_Proud old dog._

“Not so much as news as a warning,” the demon drawled. “Ever since you lot threw the Devil back into his Cage, he won’t stay put, nice and quiet. Instead he’s cooking up quite the racket down there, scaring my subjects—”

“Your _subjects?_ ” Dean interrupted, bemused. Crowley gave him a bristled look.

“King, boy,” he huffed. “As I was saying—scaring my subjects with his horrid scratching and clawing and rumbling and gnashing. He’s usually a lot calmer, but now he’s throwing tantrums everywhere around the clock, _creaking away at the bars._ ”

Here he paused, as if for dramatic effect. Or a question. When nobody said anything after four seconds, Sam scratched his head. He waited for another two seconds before asking,

“So…that’s it? That’s your warning?”

His so-what tone said everything—Crowley’s tale was lame and a page out of an old book. The demon fixed him with a look of disbelief.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” he said indignantly. “What are you, thick?”

“Uh, I heard you say Lucifer is creaking away at the bars,” said Dean, puzzled. “What else would a prisoner do in a jail with no skin-mags?”

“You—”

“They don’t know the details of the Cage as well as we do,” Cas cut in, expression grave. “Normally, the density of the material that makes up the Cage and the security of its structural elements are too high to allow any sort of hollow space to appear in between the molecules, the jointures, or, anywhere,” he explained. “Which means there should not be room for any creaking to be done. There’s nothing _to_ be rattled into making such a noise.”

“The Cage was already damaged in the freeing of the Darkness, however,” Crowley continued smoothly. “We all assumed a small crack in the walls was the end of it. Turns out our luck’s too rotten for us to get away with only that much casualty.”

“So what’re you driving at?” Sam asked, brows frowning. He was starting to get a nasty feeling about this. Cas levelled his serious eyes on both hunters.

“The initial damage _was_ small. But when God was last here, he didn’t exactly visit Hell to fix the Cage. And now…”

“That small damage isn’t so small anymore,” finished Crowley. “Which means it’s possible for Lucifer to escape. Again.”

“But the guy needs a vessel,” Dean stated, crossing his arms. “He’s not going anywhere without a meat-suit, right?”

“Small comfort,” Crowley snorted. “If there’s even the slightest chance of finding another way to crawl out of the Cage, he’ll find it. All I’m saying is—be on your guard, boys, not your asses.” 

“Well thanks for the update—no tip, though.”

“Not even one little glass of Scotch?”

“You’d just turn up your nose at ours.”

“True,” the demon sniffed. “You have the worst hospitality. Cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey!”

“Go to a bar if you must instead of whining at your friends.” Cas rebuked. Everyone’s eyebrows lifted at least an inch.

“Friends? We’re not _friends,_ ” Crowley grouched, narrowing his eyes at him. “No _friend_ would refuse a _friend_ a glass of drink in exchange for some _friendly_ advice from a _friend_.”

“Damn straight.” Dean put in helpfully. Sam and the angel exchanged a look that plainly said “children will be children.”

 

Just then, the only real child in the room began to googoo and gaga from one of the couches near the bookshelves. She’d begun to display the first signs of baby-talking, making noises besides crying or whining. Stringing out nonsensical bits of ahhs and oohs without any solid syllables in between was her regular hobby now. She was still, thankfully, unusually quiet for a not-ten-days-old bag of cells, but then again was there anything usual about her.

This caught Crowley’s attention.

“Ah, the princess speaks,” he coddled mockingly. “How’s spawn-sitting going? Lots of diapers for you to change, I hope?”

“More for him than me,” said Dean, nodding his chin towards his brother. His praise was closer to sarcasm than anything else. “Sammy here’s doin’ a great job. Regular help from Google doesn’t hurt, though.”

“But Dean’s the real expert, you know?” Sam butted in, glaring at him. “He did shower her last night, after all. Nagged me non-stop about not letting water into her ears or something.”

Castiel just looked uncomfortable. His eyes focused on the swathed-up baby for no longer than a few seconds before drifting away to gaze mutely and constrainedly at one of the books. At least he was trying, unlike Crowley, who didn’t even bother to hide his obvious contempt for Lucifer’s seedling. The demon, being what he was, flaunted his race’s privilege of being as rude and unpleasant as he liked without worrying about anyone disliking him more than they already did. Besides, the fact that the baby was not to be considered a threat hadn’t made a dent in his obstinate prejudice against her. Cas however, worked in a more complicated way. His desire to do justice to Sam’s request for fairness in the matter was clashing with his angelic instincts against Lucifer and everything related to him. And then there was the fact that he’d been human once. He had _felt_ what kindness was and how repulsive heartlessness could be—and he didn’t want to be heartless. He cared what the Winchesters thought of him. He cared what he thought of himself.

Another persistent exclamation from the baby across the room broke through his thoughts. Glancing back to the couch, he saw the younger Winchester cross over to the over-stuffed corner and take the bundled-up youngling in his arms. How strange it was, seeing Lucifer’s greatest victim caring the most for his very daughter. But then again, maybe Sam had all the reasons to be able to relate to her the most.

_Life works in mysterious ways._

“Hey,” they heard him murmur—coo—softly. “You want something?”

“She’s got him wrapped around her pinkie.” Dean muttered with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Apparently.” Crowley muttered back, expression meh.

Sam chose to ignore the unsubtle jabs from the two as he let his eyes wander over the plane of her rosy face, doing a quick scan to make sure she wasn’t wanting anything. He’d soon learned that ignoring even the smallest of scowls could result in an uncomfortably over-due diaper. Bending over her like this made his hair fall down close to her cheeks, like a short wavy curtain. He’d also learned early on how much she liked that. The baby’s hand flailed this way and that in a playful pendulum motion, making the free locks swing back and forth above her head. Sam didn’t try to stop the tiny smile creeping up to lift the corners of his mouth.

It was then when it happened. Her curious silvery irises looked straight into his mossy-green ones. She was looking at him like that, with a focused pointedness few children of her age managed.

“Sss…”

She hissed, warm air passing through the narrow space between her raised tongue and the roof of her mouth.

_That’s new._

Sam ran a long, slender finger down one plump cheek.

“Ssaaa…”

Huh. She was forming a syllable out of the blue. Talk about growth spurts. He strained his ears for more, listening. His hair dangled down as he bent his head, attentive.

“Sa—Sammama—”

She was lisping his name.

And it wasn’t anything special. Just a half-coherent garble of ‘S’s and ‘A’s and a lot of ‘M’s, struggling to roll off a mass of baby muscle. It was a small, insignificant thing that shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did.

But it did.

To hear the first word she ever uttered since birth was his name…his heart lurched a little inside his chest. It felt warm and it _hurt._ He didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t her mother. She should have learned to lisp Kelly’s name.

And here he was, usurping her very first word.

_I’m sorry._

His body was a myriad of emotions, some glowed and some were rather pallid. He found himself softly mouthing his own name.

_But I like it._

“Samma!”

She burst out, this time loud and clear. Her voice rose to a high pitched peal of a gurgling giggle, mouth wide and stretched as if to laugh. Sam gently caught hold of one of her outstretched hands, and tenderly squeezed it in between his index finger and thumb.

“Ahahooo.”

“Yeah…” he murmured back.

 

Cas, Dean, and Crowley watched the pair in undisguised wonder, Dean the most so. He was vividly reminded of a similar experience he’d had over thirty years ago from now, in a house in the small suburban areas of Kansas. It’d been quiet back then, a little boring from time to time, even. Their rooms had been filled with a warm, snug scent particular to their house and its occupants. Of course, he couldn’t recall what each room had smelled like. He could, however, vaguely remember the comforting aura that had surrounded the nursery. The nursery where he’d slept and where his little brother had laid in the crib after him. It was there that Sam had said _his_ first words.

_Mamma._

A few days later,

_Dee._

That had come as a pleasant surprise. “Dad” had come last. Sam had chosen—well, subconsciously chosen—to speak Dean’s name first. And in his own, slightly selfish way, Dean liked to think it meant Sam had always put him first instead of their father. That had become quite transparent in their teenage years, when he would constantly chew dad out and grouch at him moodily. On those bad days he would always look up to his older brother for support. Sometimes he got it, and other time he got a chiding instead. However it fell out, he would always find it in himself to have Dean over dad any day.

Perhaps those first babbles in the nursery had been moments of premonition.

Moments of irony.

Dean wondered if Sam knew all this. He wondered if he’d even told him about the name thing. Had he? Had dad? He seriously doubted it.

“I always knew he was Samantha,”

The gruffly musical tone of Crowley brought him back to the surface.

“Apparently the princess knows it, too.”

“What?” he said, shaking himself out of his reverie. Crowley glanced at him.

“It was just a joke.”

“Whatever.”

“I thought jokes were supposed to be funny,” said Cas, confused.

“And I thought that was _very_ funny,” Crowley retorted, expression mock-serious. Cas cocked his head.

“You did?”

“Yes. But never mind.”

The demon waved a hand at him.

 

Leaving the two to their insipid conversation, Dean went over to Sam and the baby. Sam was still holding her, a look of fascination on his face.

Dean thought he could relate. 

“Hey.”

Sam heyed back, albeit a little distractedly. Glancing up, he grinned hesitantly at him.

“It’s feels so weird,” he remarked, and Dean thought he could detect sadness in his face. “I never thought I’d grow attached to her like this. ”

“Well, you were always the weirdo,” he replied jokingly. “But no, seriously, I think she likes you.”

Sam lowered his eyes.

“Kinda makes me wonder what I first said when I could babble,” he mused.

“‘Mom,’ obviously.”

Dean paused. Then he added,

“After that, my name.”

His brother lifted his eyes to look at him.

“Really?” he asked, lips quirking in amusement. “’Dean’ and not ‘dad?’”

“Nope,” Dean replied, trying to make his tone as nonchalant as possible. “It sounded more like Dee than Dean, but.”

Sam chewed on that.

“You never told me,” he commented, looking lost in a time he couldn’t remember. Dean shrugged, putting on a brush-it-off face.

“C’mon, why would I tell you that? Don’t be such a chic-flick.”

“You love chic-flicks.” Sam accused knowingly. Scratching the back of his neck, he added, “I’m glad you told me.”

“S’nothing important.” Dean mumbled. God, Sammy and his knack for _feels._ Try as he might, sometimes it was contagious. Sometimes being right now.

“Deeeee.”

Startled, he looked down. The baby was looking at him, eyes wandering near his person.

“Deee.”

“Did—did she just—?”

“She did,” Sam’s smile widened, his own eyes lighting up even further with delight.

Together, they watched. The two visitors were all but forgotten, and Dean couldn’t help a small smile from shadowing his own lips. Castiel and Crowley observed the trio from the table, conflicting emotions mingling together and bumping against the sharp edges of their rockiness towards the new addition of the household. For one wild moment, all they saw was a family. For a fleeting minute, they were softened. When the minute threatened to prolong to two however, Crowley decided to break it off.

“Oh my, they’re having a moment,” he harrumphed, clearing his throat. Clearly, he had not seen that coming.

“Well, time for the king to go back to his kingdom.”

Cas simply evaporated without saying a word, neither to the demon nor to the brothers. Crowley followed suit.

And that is why when the Winchesters belatedly emerged from the irresistible charm of the child’s lisping, the three of them were once again alone in the bunker. After Sam had nursed the baby with a bottle and settled her comfortably back on the couch, they each grabbed a beer for themselves and dropped into a larger sofa a little apart from where she sat. A few good swigs later, Sam convinced himself this was the best-timed opportunity to bring up a subject he’d been turning over in his head for a couple of days. Setting the half-empty bottle on the coffee table with a tap, he turned to Dean.

Plucking up the courage to suggest what he was about to suggest wasn’t too easy. He didn’t want to be ridiculed or laughed at when he was being serious.

“So,” he started, hiding his nervousness behind an air of casualness. “I was thinking.”

“Oh, that’s never good.”

Wow. Such an encouragement.

“Thanks—I was _thinking_ ,” he repeated emphatically, “that we should name her.”

He kept his eyes open to Dean’s reactions, keenly watching for some sign of approval or disapproval. His brother just nodded. Slowly.

“That’s…reasonable, I guess. Eh, let’s see…Lucy?” Dean suggested, forehead wrinkling as he waggled his eyebrows. Sam narrowed his eyes.

“That’s mean,” he rejected indignantly. He didn’t want any part of the word “Lucifer Morningstar” to go in the naming process. It felt like a visible, tangible taint on the innocent, one they’d have to recall every time they called her by name. She was the farthest thing from him as could be. He was certain she deserved more than being labeled after her father.

Dean was tapping away at his phone.

 _“Popular Baby Girl Names,”_ he read aloud. “Take your pick.” He began scrolling down the page.

“Abbey, Abbigale, Amy, Ashley… Jane, Jennifer, Jenny, Joanna, Jullie…Lily, Lisa—” 

“Dude,” Sam cut in, throwing up his hands. “You really gonna choose a random name off the internet?” 

“Why, you already got something worked out?” Dean asked teasingly. “That’s real sweet Sammy,” he sniggered.

“Aaaaaand exactly why I said nothing about it till now.”

Sam picked up his beer again and took a moody gulp. Dean had already finished his seconds ago. Sam wasn’t sure if “drinking like a fish” covered the guy’s talent for downing alcohol.

_“Like a whale,” more like._

Dean tapped a fingernail against the phone screen.

“So..?” he probed, turning down the joke-attitude volume to placate him. He could tell his brother was serious about this. “What’ve you got?”

Sam focused his eyes on the cheap brown, glass bottle in his hand. He held it up to his face in a speculative manner.

“I want to name her after silver,” he answered. He purposefully made his tone lax and easy, because he didn’t want to give away how much thought he’d invested in this simple question of a new proper noun. He’d considered quite a few in his idle moments. Tee, Tanya, Tattia after titanium; Mercy after mercury; even Diana and Sally; but after rolling around a few stones for a while, it became clear he particularly favored one.

He hadn’t forgotten her beautiful, silvery-grey eyes.

“Sylvie,” he said at last, after some deliberation. “I want to name her Sylvie.”

 

Months passed—six months, to be exact. And during the first one-sixth of that period, a hilariously miraculous thing happened; each and every one of them—Sam, Dean, Castiel, Crowley, and even Rowena—were called by name by Sylvie. She learned their names by sitting and listening to the drone of conversations, of which she obtained an increasing understanding. Sam and Dean were constantly around her, so they had naturally come first to her mouth. Cas and Crowley took longer, and the syllables forming “Rowena” only came along long after she’d caught up with everybody else’s.

“Hey Cas,” Dean called out excitedly. “She’s saying your name.”

“Ca—Cas!”

No visible smile graced Castiel’s face, but from then on his indication of the baby changed from “it” to “her.”

“Crowley,” Sam called over his shoulder. “C’mere.”

“Cowee.”

“Oh.” The demon blinked twice. “It knows my name. So what?” The way he ran a hand through his hair, however, was a dead give-away. He turned away with an air of disinterest.

“’Weena!”

“Oh dear,” the witch exclaimed, hand pressed dramatically to her heart. “Did you ever see such a thing?”

“Mothers,” her son muttered under his breath.

The six months brought changes with it. As Cas had predicted, Sylvie grew extremely fast, both in mind and body. By the end of the half-year, she had the physics of a four-year-old and the intellect of an early (and smart) elementary grade schooler. Their estimate went about eight to nine years.

They were strange times, but for once the strangeness didn’t come from an ominous thunderstorm of supernatural entities. It came from a softness of heart, almost of the parental kind they had never had a chance to show before. Dean had had Ben for a short while, but the kid had been a kid, not a freakin’ baby. And Sam…he had, in momentary flashes, imagined what it would be like to have children with Jess. They, in each of their own minds, had thought of marriage, but hadn’t really talked about it. Those little what ifs had been stolen away from him all too soon. He hardly ever thought about her now. After all those years, the fresh pain had dulled to a miserable scar. That didn’t mean he loved her any less, though. Even with the occasional one-night stands and Ruby and Amelia, he’d never quite gotten over the genuine emotions from his first deep relationship.

Maybe it was love.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was grief.

Whatever it was, the passion of it had long gone cool without dissolving into nothing. For some reason, seeing Sylvie revived his memories of Jess—but only the good ones. Her full cheeks when she grinned, her big, long-lashed eyes, the laughs and tenderness they’d shared for two short years.

And then there was the brightness of childhood. As Sylvie grew older, she grew to love laughter. How she obtained that particular taste, they never knew for sure. It wasn’t as if the Men of Letters bunker was a place overflowing with mirth and fun, right? There were the occasional comic books with decades-old jokes too corny to be humorous or retro to be understood, but they were pretty sure she didn’t get kicks out of _those._ She seemed to find enjoyment in the every-day things. She giggled when Sam had his hair in a messy pineapple ponytail and bounced the locks with her finger; she cooed when Dean belched out tipsy rock songs after a drink; and she took an unusual liking to Rowena of all people, and laughed delightedly whenever the witch presented her with magical fireworks. Rowena, in turn, seemed rather flustered with the child. Sometimes she kept her distance. Sometimes she went right up to her to see her smile at her “magic tricks.” In an unexpected way, Sylvie seemed to charm her in spite of herself. In Crowley’s words, “mother’s having a bit of a relationship crises.”

There were discoveries along the way as well. Sam found her crouched in a snug corner of the library, squished between shelves and holding open a book about the history of the Grand Witch Coven when her body was just two years old. “Do you know what you’re reading about?” he’d asked, as a test to see if she was looking at the book or reading it. Instead of answering the question, she’d asked back with not the slightest tinge of babyish dialect, “why are there more bad witches than good witches?” He was instantly reminded of Matilda, and knew he needed to see Cas.

“Her intellectual abilities are developing much faster than her body,” Cas explained. “I already knew that, but I didn’t know it would grow _this_ fast.”

“Her pronunciations were perfect, too,” Sam added. “Talk about prodigies.”

“If only she was mere prodigy.” Cas murmured darkly.

“Then what does it mean?” Dean piped up. “Is she gonna grow older and older real fast till she becomes an old lady in just a few years?”

Sam had thought of that too, and hadn’t really liked the idea. Thankfully, the angel told them otherwise.

“No,” he informed them. “I’ve been doing my own research up in Heaven, and found some researched data in one of the hidden corners of our archives. It says that an angel’s grace combined with human DNA renders the Nephilim’s physical and mental conditions high-functioning and as effective as possible. The grace will give the Nephilim advantages, and advantages only.”

“Okay, so all that translates in English to..?”

“Her growth will continue until she reaches the peak-condition of a human. The ‘golden age,’ as some will call it. I’m guessing around about her mid-twenties. When she reaches the height of physical bloom, she’ll remain that way for quite a long time.”

“Like Renesmee,” Sam put in. Cas nodded.

“Yes, well, Renesmee was immortal. Nephilims don’t live forever, they begin to age extremely slowly at one point. But the process is too slow for a single generation to observe. It’ll probably take half a dozen to make a wrinkle on their foreheads.”

“Hold on,” Dean interrupted. “Did you guys just use a _Twilight_ reference?” The disdain in his voice made Sam want to flush in embarrassment. He’d done nothing wrong, but somehow he felt guilty.

“Why, you understood it or something?” he asked defiantly. Dean had opened his mouth to lecture Sam on girly vampire fantasies, but now he closed it. He glared at him for a second, then decided to come clean.

“The movies. You?”

“The books.”

“Yes, that’s all very nice and predictable. Now will you please get back to the point,” chided Cas, feeling the acute urge to roll his eyes. “We were talking about Nephilims and what I found out about them in Heaven, or have you forgotten.”

“Fire away, professor,” Dean said, turning from Sam. Sam bore a classical bitchface at the back of his spiky head, which no one but Cas saw. The angel had to repress a sigh.

_Humans and their fuss over fictions._

“I’ve always wondered why Nephilims didn’t multiply on this planet,” he went on. “At first I thought it was because graces couldn’t be passed on genetically by half-bloods. Turns out I was wrong.”

“What is it?” Sam asked curiously.

“Female Nephilims are barren. They cannot bear children.”

“Ever?” said Dean.

“Ever. Did you know Catherine Howard of England was one of them?”

“King Henry the 8th’s _wife_?” Sam exclaimed incredulously. Cas was calmly in the affirmative.

“She would have lived much, much longer if she hadn’t been executed.”

“Shame, whoever she was.” Dean tutted.

“It’s better this way. They can’t breed all over the place and make themselves any less rarer than they are.”

Castiel couldn’t keep the hint of antagonism from seeping through his voice. Sam didn’t say anything, but he felt a mild blow of pang for Sylvie. One day she would become a woman; one day she would fall in love; one day she would know the significance of what she lacked as a female, and Sam worried how she might take it.

Just then, the child herself toddled into the room. Two and already walking without once tripping over her own feet—impressive.

“Sam,” she called out, book in hand. “What’s _abscond_ mean?”

 

All in all it was a surreal era of familial developments, astonishing, really. If Rome had had 200 years of Golden Peace under the Caesars’ reign, Team Free Will had 24 weeks of budding domestic and exploration under Sylvie. It was like spring time after a stormy winter gale, what with so few cases to work on (thanks to the BML) and Lucifer still out of their line of sight. The Winchesters could actually feel the warmer glow of the bunker, the loosened noose around their necks sliding down just a sliver of an inch, letting them breathe freer air in a long, long time. They knew it wasn’t meant to last. It never did. They could never entirely let their guards down because of the shadow of doubt that constantly cropped up in their minds, and the fear of the firmer ground they stood on suddenly roaring back to life. But they couldn’t help wanting this, this intensified sense of _home_ and _family._ It made them…happier. Sometimes they couldn’t wrap their heads around it, that that was exactly what this strange little child did for them.

Their lives were so unpredictable. The only thing they could count on for certain seemed to be the inevitability of another catastrophe, another impending doom. And that is why they tried their best to enjoy the good times for as long as they lasted.

 

Six months going on to seven months. Sam and Dean were working on a new case featuring a rather sickening occurrence of all water—drinking water, tap water and even toilette water— turning into blood on the very outskirts of Nebraska, close to the borders of Kansas. They’d payed a visit to the town but hadn’t really managed to figure things out. They’d stayed put in a motel for two days but nothing of the kind had happened again. So now they were back in the bunker to do some proper research with ancient texts instead of websites, and to wait and see if bad would strike again.

“Maybe it’s got something to do with the Ten Plagues of Egypt,” Sam suggested half-heartedly. “Water turning into blood’s a typical biblical disaster.” Lifting a weary pair of eyes from one of the books, he saw Dean nodding distractedly, nose buried in another volume.

Not-really-four-years-old Sylvie was idly playing by herself under one of the bookshelves, quiet and unobtrusive.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” rumbled Cas in his deep voice. “Though I can’t really remember what the other plagues were…I’m sure there were frogs. And first-born sons. I lived through them, you know. ”

“I’ll hit the bible,” Sam offered, rubbing his eyes with a fist.

“Awesome, we’re going back to Sunday-school,” Dean grumbled without looking up. Sylvie looked up from one of the black-and-white photo albums she’d been rifling through for the last whole hour. “I’ll get it, Sam,” she volunteered, childishly eager, jumping up from the plastic-strewn floor as if she’d been waiting for a chance to break boredom. Turning to the rows and rows of books, she ran her eyes through the various shapes and colors. “It’s called the Holy Bible, right? With the black cover? I saw it.”

“What?” Sam stiffened in alarm. “No, you don’t have to—”

Sylvie’s arm stretched up towards the shelf where the book was—the shelf that was too high to be within her reach. Not even on her tiptoes. Sam exhaled a private sigh of relief. Thank whatever scarce amount of luck he had that he’d remembered to place any holy Christian texts out of kiddie-range. He’d also managed to keep any religious relics out of her hands as well. She wasn’t touching anything of the sort any time soon.

He should have anticipated what came next.

Sylvie let out a sharp gasp of pain as the book slid off the shelf into her waiting hand. The moment her fingers grasped the spine, an angry hiss escaped from the skin touching the leather as a barely visible wisp of smoke rose from the contact. She instantly released it as the burn stung her flesh, letting the bible fall to the floor with a thick thud and a ruffle of fluttered leaves. Dropping to her knees and clutching the reddened hand to her chest, she felt the disorienting pierce of shock working its way into her system.

Her body trembled, frightened.

“Sylvie!”

Sam’s hands were on her shoulders in an instant, his eyes trying to find her face, hidden beneath a curtain of long brown hair. Her locks appeared to be flecked with gold underneath the yellow lighting from the table, shining soberly to cover up the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks.

“Let me see your hand.”

Instead of bursting out wailing, she shuddered with the effort to work herself down again, to process what had happened. A suppressed whimper escaped her throat regardless of her clamped teeth.

_What’s going on it hurts it hurts it hurts_

“Sylvie, I need to see your hand _right now._ ”

_It was just a book why why why_

Slowly, she uncurled herself and let Sam’s big hands envelop hers. Her arm was tense, ready to snatch her injured hand right back if he touched it the wrong way. She tried to get away with a sniffle and ended up releasing a shaky sob as his familiar warmth cautiously caressed the place near the burn, examining it. Some mysterious, subconsciously rational part of her told herself it wasn’t anything too serious.

The pain didn’t last. The sore hotness was cooled with a soaked towel, and within ten minutes the offended part was anointed and firmly bandaged. She gingerly skimmed her fingertips over the white gauze, a shade calmer but no less confused than ever.

The others knew exactly what had happened. Castiel’s narrowed eyes were intently fixed at the Nephilim, and Dean had leapt up from his chair the moment he saw what she had done. Now he stood there awkwardly, not sure if he should join Sam by Sylvie’s side or stay where he was and let him handle this.

Sam was shaken.

Had they told her anything?

No.

Had she asked them anything?

No.

Had they even thought of telling her?

Sometimes.

They knew that truth was one of the ugliest, most inevitable things out there. It was a shapeshifter; it could distinguish itself as an honorable act of honesty—or deform itself to a hateful monster. This monster, the brothers had silently agreed to lock away until “further notice.” Sam knew withholding knowledge from a young one was like two sides of a coin; what started out as innocent protection for the sake of a child’s happiness and mental stability could easily turn into cowardice on the withholder’s part and an abuse to the oblivious. When she was a little older; when the time was riper; he would sit her down and look her in the eyes, and tell her.

He hadn’t thought the time would come with Sylvie freeing the monster from its prison with her own hands.

Literally.

Looking down at her, he sensed the question even before it was asked.

“Sam,” her voice tremored. “What happened just now?”

Sam met her unsettled gaze, and held them. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“Does it burn _you_?”

“No,” he replied honestly, shaking his head. “It only does that to you.”

“Why?”

She looked lost. Scared. Sam wanted to make that expression go away, but he knew—not until they got this over with.

“Because you’re…” he hesitated.

_Different._

“Special.”

“But why am I special? Why aren’t you special?” she persisted, frustrated. She couldn’t understand. “I don’t understand.”

Sam had to swallow.

“I’ll explain it to you,” he promised. “I’ll explain it to you now. But I need you to tell me something first. And you have to promise to be honest, okay?” he pleaded. Sylvie nodded, pricking up her ears in apprehension.

“When did you first learn to use your powers?” he asked, phrasing the question slowly and clearly, with superficial precision. They needed to know. Unfortunately, Sylvie’s brows only crinkled with more confusion.

“P—powers?” she echoed. “What powers?”

“You just moved an object with your mind without touching it,” Castiel replied sternly. “I would call that ‘powers.’”

“Oh.” Sylvie’s face unclouded a little. “You mean this?”

Raising her free hand, she directed it palm outward toward the angel. His crooked blue necktie swung off his shirt and fluttered in the direction of her outstretched hand, like a nail to a magnet. She didn’t make it untie itself, but let it hang limply against his shirt again. Cas’s grim expression did not change.

“I don’t know, maybe two months ago?” she guessed, lowering her hand. Sam’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sylvie fiddled with a lock of her hair. She rubbed it nervously between her little index finger and thumb, lowering her eyes.

“I thought everyone could do it,” she replied in a small voice.

Sam couldn’t believe they hadn’t caught her in the act for a whole couple of months. What had they been doing all this time? Oh right, they’d been busy 1) paying attention to Crowley’s reports from Hell and 2) Cas’s efforts to distract the other angels in heaven from nosing into this Nephilim business and 3) keeping their weather-eyes on the horizon for scanty cases.

Things were never simple.

Sylvie peeked up from underneath her wavy bangs as she heard Sam’s deep sigh.

“Are you angry at me?” she wanted to know. She didn’t say anything else, just this one cautious question. But Sam could hear the rest of her unspoken thoughts trailing behind the solitary question mark, imploring for understanding, for forgiveness that she didn’t even have to ask for.

_Did I do something wrong?_

_Is it my fault?_

_Do you blame me?_

_I didn’t know anything. How could I?_

Sam took her other hand in his, and gently squeezed them.

“No, Sylv. There’s nothing for me to be angry about,” he assured her. But he bowed his head and exhaled heavily through his nose. He didn’t say anything for a while, just holding those two small pieces of flesh and bones that were exactly like any other human child’s. He felt his words were a tattooing needle. The immense truth that was only a secret to her, the ink. Once he pierced her skin, this work could never be undone. He remembered someone saying, “a little pain and a little damage for beauty.”

He wouldn’t be able to give her beauty with this kind of damage. Not when his tongue could so easily carve a wound instead of a revelation into her young body.

But the risk wasn’t optional. He had to take it.

“Sam?”

This time, it was Sylvie who was trying to see his face. Her tentative reminder brought his eyes up to hers again.

How to explain to a kid fresh in the middle of childhood, that her real father was the Devil?  The messiness of Lucifer’s character wasn’t helping, because as much as he needed to simplify the long story, Sam didn’t want to dumb it down to a solid block of complete black either. As much as he’d suffered under his merciless hand, he found it in himself the desire to do the complexity of his history justice—for the daughter’s sake, if not the father’s. 

Metaphor would be his friend in this.

“There is an angel,” he began steadily. So far there was nothing new to Sylvie. Having Castiel and Crowley as occasional visitors to her home had informed her earlier on about the existence of angels and demons. Sam and lain strict precautions on both of their mouths not to hint a word about the big picture of things in front of her, but hadn’t been able to stop her from pestering the two about Heaven and Hell. As a result, she knew God really existed and angels weren’t cute and fluffy like in the comic books. 

But that was all she knew—so blissfully little.

“His Father is God,” Sam continued. “And he used to be His favorite. God had three other sons…but he loved this angel the most.”

“Who is this angel?” asked Sylvie. She didn’t know why Sam was suddenly talking about some random angel, but she could tell by his serious face that it had something to do with her.

“He’s called Lucifer.”

“Lucifer.”

She repeated after him, trying the unfamiliar name on her tongue. It sounded sleek, and uncommonly luxurious to her impressionable mind.

“It’s a pretty name,” she decided. Sam smiled uncomfortably, while Cas and Dean exchanged frowns at the same time from behind. She was making this so much harder without even knowing it.

After an awkward pause, Sam resumed his story.

“God loved Lucifer, and Lucifer loved his Father, too. But one day—” here, he took a deep breath. “—God tore his wings out.”

Sylvie’s eyes went round.

“Why would he do that?” she demanded.

“It was a mistake,” he said quickly. “He didn’t mean to hurt Lucifer, but He ended up doing it anyway. And without his wings, Lucifer couldn’t fly anymore. So…he fell from Heaven. He fell into Hell.”

“That’s horrible,” she whispered, sympathetic. Sam shifted uneasily.

“Yes, well, that’s not all. After he fell, he…escaped from Hell.”

Even as he skipped over major chunks of details, he felt a stab of guilt. The demon blood, the 66 seals, the Rising, the Darkness…But Sylvie didn’t have to know about all those right now. Right now, she asking to know who she was.

“He’d been in Hell for a very long time, and when he got out, he wanted revenge. He blamed his Father for everything that had happened to him, and he wanted to get back at Him. So he started destroying everything his Father made—us.”

“Yeah, he tried to end the entire world,” Dean interjected. “He had one hell of a daddy-issue.”

“Daddy-issue?”

“We’ll get on to that later,” said Sam, turning her attention to him again. “But yeah, he tried to end the world. And in the process, he hurt a lot of people. He hurt me.”

He surprised himself by stating this so calmly. He didn’t feel spikes of prickly anger or fear or hatred. He’d already had too much of all those things. He wanted to believe he’d gotten over this. He wanted to believe he wasn’t broken anymore.

“He hurt all of us,” he continued, gesturing around to Dean and Cas. “He killed my friends and my family. He did a lot of bad to everyone.”

“All that because he was angry at his Father?” said Sylvie faintly. “Why couldn’t they just make up? God should say sorry, right?” 

_You make it sound so simple._

“He did, after a long time. And for a while, things started to look up. We thought they were good. But then, um…God went back to Heaven. Without Lucifer. Lucifer thinks his Father abandoned him again. That He only apologized to get him to stop breaking up his things. So now…now he’s back to destroying everything in his way again.”

He looked away.

“He’s already killed so many more.”

“This world is in danger because of him,” stated Cas. “You have no idea how much damage he can do.”

Sylvie’s eyes darted between Sam, Dean, and the angel. She looked troubled. Something was beginning to creep up to her perceptive mind.

“Sam,” she said slowly. “Why are you telling me all this?”

She didn’t miss how the hunter’s roughened hands gripped firmly, gently around hers. Was he nervous?

“During his stay here on earth, about a year ago, Lucifer, he…he had a child. That child was born six months ago.”

What was this misgiving she felt? Something was threatening to dawn on her, but she pushed it back. She didn’t like was she suspected.

“Stop,” she suddenly muttered. “I don’t like this story.”

“That child,” Sam pressed on, silently hating himself for it, “was a baby girl.”

Sylvie’s breathing quickened. She stared up at his face and tried to read it like the fairy-tale books she’d found in one of the dusty corners of their home. It had to have a happy ending, an ending she liked.

But Sam’s eyes were sad, and full of something she didn’t want to see.

It look several long minutes to push herself over the edge and let reality sink in. When it finally did, the rocky bottom of the cliff crashed into her, hard.

“No,” she finally managed. She shook her head once, twice.

“Sylvie…”

“No.”

Had she thought that Sam was her biological parent all along? Kind of. But not exactly. Strangely enough, she’d never given much thought about it. Sam was just Sam. Dean was just Dean. She liked them, especially Sam. He took care of her and made sure she didn’t touch the sharp weapons lying around in the cellars. That was all she knew and all she cared about. She’d never felt the need to call them “mom” or “dad.” She’d never felt the need to call their relationship to question.

“It explains where you got your telekinetic powers,” Castiel insisted adamantly. “Also, why the Bible burned your skin.”

Sylvie turned her head to look at him. His cobalt eyes were temperature-less, neither cold nor compassionate. He spoke without emotion.

“You are half angel and half human, therefore you are unholy.”

“Cas.”

His words rang loudly through the intense atmosphere like a court sentence. Sylvie barely knew what being “unholy” meant. But she could tell it was something very bad. Something connected with Lucifer. She suddenly felt rejected, thrown off her feet and out of her ground.

What did this all mean?

According to him, she wasn’t an angel like Cas. She wasn’t human like Sam or Dean. She wasn’t a witch like Rowena. She wasn’t even a demon like Crowley.

Was this what Sam meant by “special?”

If this was “special,” she didn’t want it.

_It just means I’m not any one of them._

The sudden insecurity was overwhelming, harsh.

“Hey, look at me.”

Sam’s soft voice broke through her pain.

Releasing her hands, he took hold of her shoulders and gently shook her. Sylvie looked up at him, desperate for an anchor to stop herself from spinning away into chaos, and he knew exactly what she was going through.

_God knows that I went through it, too._

“This,” he said, holding up her bandaged hand to the light, “doesn’t change anything. Your father may be Lucifer, but that doesn’t mean he has to be your family. Family doesn’t end in blood, but it doesn’t start there either.”

_Bobby always said so and we know how true that is._

“You’re one of _us,_ ” he emphasized, stressing the last word. “You’re part of our family. Don’t let something like Lucifer change that, because he’s not your fault. None of us think that.”

“But he’s _evil,_ ” Sylvie objected, voice not quite strong enough to sound antagonistic. A flash of uncertainty crossed her features even as she said it. 

Sam sighed. He closed his eyes, and it took an extra second longer for him to blink them open again. 

“Before he was evil…he was hurt and angry,” he said quietly. “I just want you to know that he wasn’t always like that. And I want you to know that _you_ are not like that. Don’t go thinking you’re a bad person just because Lucifer is. Sylvie.”

He looked earnestly into her watery eyes. 

“You made our home a happier place. You could never have done that for us if you weren’t a good person.”

Sylvie sniffed. Instead of answering him right away, she scooted closer to him on her knees and reached out her arms. Sam instantly knew what she wanted, and enveloped her with his own long arms, letting her bury her head into his chest. 

It was a huge embrace in which Sylvie felt so very, very small, in every sense of the word.

Sam drew slow circles across her back as soothingly as he could with his scarred palm.

He felt her body shake a little.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“It’s okay,” he hushed her. He felt moisture on his shirt.

_Circles, circles, circles._

“You’ll be okay.”

Sylvie clung to him tighter, the torrent of emotions finally getting the better of her.

_Circles, circles, circles._

“I promise.”

 

Castiel never told this to the others—but in that moment, he felt his heart move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a lot to ask, but I really hope the writers don't set Lucifer's son as a simple nephilim-weapon for Lucifer or anybody else to manipulate. I want him to have an interesting personality and real relationships with other characters, especially Sammy. Who agrees?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to upload the new chapter, didn't it? School has me by the neck around the clock, so...:( I didn't even notice my three days were up! Next one won't take so long, I promise.

Sylvie coped the best she could—which, unfortunately, wasn’t enough to satisfy the Winchesters. She would suddenly lapse into fits of absentness even as she was talking; her bursts of laughter would often fade away to pensive silence; all of which they observed. Sam felt a pang whenever he saw her face overshadowed with something other than a childish pout. As the week progressed, it became transparent she would never return to the utterly care-free state she’d been before.

We all know what they say: no pain, no gain. Except, the “gain” part isn’t quite clear in this situation. To her, “truth” seems more like a loss than anything.

They had to do something about her.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Dean agreed when Sam slunk into his room to talk about it one afternoon. Clearing away not one but two first editions of _Busty Asian Beauties_ lying around Dean’s mattress, Sam warily sat on the edge of the bed.

“What do we do?” he sighed, not really getting any bright ideas. His brother, thankfully, seemed to have come up with something.

“Maybe we should take her out,” Dean suggested.

“Out?” Sam echoed.

“Yeah, out. Ya know, fresh air, change of scenery and all that classic shit.”

Sam didn’t look convinced.

“But Dean, the BML are still out there,” he reminded. “We don’t know when and where they’re spying on us. What do you think they’ll do the moment they see Sylvie and find out she’s a Nephilim?”

“And that is a one tough point. But Sam, she’s four—or nine, depends on how you look at it—and never been outside these walls. Don’t you think that’s a bit of an over-protection?” Dean pointed out. Sam looked away, realizing he was right. Come to think of it, when had the kid ever touched a plant that wasn’t from the grocer’s? Had she ever got herself dirty with soil before? Or smelled the smell of natural wind?

He didn’t want his home to become her prison. He of all people wouldn’t want that.

“I guess you’re right,” he gave in. If only he could keep her safe without making a bird in a cage out of her.

Dean, seeing his brother bite his lip in conflict, decided to bring forth the fruits of his labor.

“I knew you’d be worried,” he said, satisfied. “So I did some research, and found someplace real cool. Check this out.”

A thin small volume was handed to Sam. He looked at the open pages and saw a black-and-white photograph with a yellowish tinge and lots of words written underneath. The text was rather small.

_Lake Geheimnis._

_The ruins of the old Men of Letters base lie here, throughout the forest around this lake. The walls and pillars have all broken down to rocks and pebbles, and moss and ivy have crawled all over the lost memories. But the old bunker’s powers of concealment still seems to linger here. A fellow Man tried to track us down with a spell while our group was on an expedition to this place, and related how the spell was ineffectual and that he could not reach us. The place was named after the German word for “secret” in honor to the German immigrant Man who first discovered it. The location of this historic site, in turn, will be kept secret in honor to its name._

“Huh. Seems ideal.” 

“And that’s why I’m a genius.” Dean beamed. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, except we don’t know where it is. We don’t even know which state it’s in.”

They were still trying to get around this difficulty, when Castiel suddenly appeared behind them. 

“Jesus,” Sam gasped, nearly dropping the research material he’d pulled out and crashing into him at the same time.

“He was a good man,” the angel replied. “Very religious. Although I doubt that was his real name.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

“Why’re you here? Is everything okay?” he asked. Dean was still staring thoughtfully at the colorless picture. Cas glanced at the older brother.

“I think Crowley and Rowena are up to something,” he reported. “I saw them _together_ near a _hidden lake_ of some sort. That’s never a good combination, and I’ll need your help if they’re planning mischief.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a quick look.

“This lake you’re talking about,” Dean said slowly, “is it in a forest, by any chance?”

Castiel looked surprised.

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

Another exchanged look.

“Is it called _Geheimnis,_ by any chance?” he asked, this time more hopefully. Cas’s answer was positive.

“Although, why a geographical area in North America was named in German, I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s more of a historical area,” Sam corrected. “We’ll fill you in later.”

“In the meantime,” said Dean, already putting the books back on the shelf in a haphazard order that he knew would get under his nerd brother’s skin, “it looks like we found our ride.”

 

Unsurprisingly, Sylvie was all for it.

“We’re going outside?” she asked excitedly. “I’ve never been outside.”

“Not for long now,” Sam smiled, patting her shoulder. “We’re gonna see some nature.”

 

The first thing the group perceived when they arrived at the place, even before the foliage and the water, was the sound of a man and woman arguing.

“Just this once, Fargus? For dear mummy.”

“And get myself all sopping wet? I’ll pass.”

“Hello Rowena. Hello Crowley,” Sylvie greeted, unfazed. She was used to seeing them bicker. The duo turned and spotted the newly arrived assembly.

“Well, well, well, look who’s here,” Crowley drawled. “Little princess and her train. The angel, too? I doubt he’ll allow you to boss me around, mother.”

“Says who? What’s going on?” Cas demanded. Rowena beat her son to it.

“Nothing at all, blue-eyes,” she said, all smiles. “We were simply having a disagreement. You know, the usual mother and her puberty-stricken son dynamic.”

Crowley was already talking over her before she was finished.

“She wants me to get something for her,” he cut in. “Something at the bottom of the damn bloody lake.”

“It’s no trouble at all for you!” Rowena insisted. “You’ll be able to pull it off in a jiffy!”

“This custom-made suit is expensive and doesn’t like water!” Crowley retorted, raising his voice. “It took 20 pints of lamb’s blood and 500 rolls of spiderweb cashmere to make this!”

“What a waste,” Dean muttered.

“I can make it nice and dry again. It’ll be like before! No wrinkles, no water.”

“O, can you.”

“If Hermione can do it, then so can I,” Rowena bragged.

“What is this treasure you’re after?” queried Cas, suspicious and mistrustful. If it was something a witch coveted after, it couldn’t be anything good.

“Freshwater salt crystals,” the demon tattled. “Says it’ll amplify her magical abilities if she eats it twice a day, every day.”

Sam shook his head. He hadn’t known that was even a thing. Castiel frowned in disapproval.

“She won’t get them,” he decreed. “I won’t let her.”

“And I won’t take orders from her,” Crowley grumbled. “And I’m not in _puberty._ ”

“Sometimes you make us doubtful,” Dean snorted. The demon shot him a look that was the spitting image of his brother’s bitch-face. No doubt he’d picked up a thing or two from moose.

Sylvie wasn’t listening to any of this. She’d lost interest to the grown-ups talking, and had wandered over closer to the lake. She stared around her in awe.

They were up in a mountain-range, the unbelievably wide sky as blue as the body of water opened underneath its span. The air smelled of all kinds of things her nose wasn’t used to: rippling waters cooled by wind; red and yellow leaves drying on the ground; fresh barks of wood; puny wildflowers; nameless grasses on the verge of turning yellow; damp soil; harmless mushrooms; ripening berries; withering summer; deepening autumn. Not only was she smelling these—she was seeing and feeling and touching them as well. She pushed her face up to stare closely at the magnificent shape of the maple leaf. She sucked in as much oxygen as she possibly could in one breath, then whooshed it out again, puffing up and deflating herself with alien freshness. She let her fingertips brush against the harsh and bristly surface of the pine, and the deeply grooved bark of the chestnut tree. She marveled at the intricacy of everything she saw. Her five senses were being assailed by the sort of beauty she’d only ever seen on TV, and it was delightfully overwhelming.

Something deep inside of her stirred.

“She’s beautiful,” Sylvie thought.

_Mother Nature._

National Geography had taught her the term.

Standing under a large maple tree, she suddenly remembered the monkeys she’d seen on the channel, climbing trees and frisking around the branches. She took a step closer and sized it up—the lowest fork in the trunk seemed reasonable enough.

Raising a foot and holding onto the two forks, she hoisted herself up the smooth trunk.

“Don’t fall off and break your neck!” she heard Sam call from behind.

“I’ll be careful!” she called back, concentrating on the next available footing.

“Relax, Sammy,” said Dean, sitting down next to him. “Cas’ll heal her if she damages anything. Right, buddy?”

Dean looked around.

“Cas?”

“The bloody lake isn’t that deep! You’re just scared to go under the water!”

“Blah, blah, boo.”

“Bring back even a milligram of crystals, and I’ll smite it to atoms.”

“I wonder when they’re gonna stop,” Sam wondered aloud, serenely picking up a chunk of eroded granite from the ground.

 

They did stop eventually, eventually being over an hour later. By that time Dean was dozing off under the shade and Sam had built a miniscule fort with the pieces of old granite and bricks he’d found lying around. Rowena was sulking at the edge of the water, and Cas and Crowley were softly discussing which was worse—being twisted into a free-willed demon or being turned into a brainwashed angelic soldier. Sam was listening in, amused, while Crowley wheedled out pretty convincing advantages of the former, when Sylvie ran up to the scattered group. Her cheeks were flushed with activity, and there was a light-hearted skip to her feet that was impossibly endearing. They noticed her tiny pockets were bulging full of something, and one of her hands were hidden behind her back.

“I have something for you!” she announced, grinning sweetly. Dean’s snore stuttered and stopped as his eyelids fluttered open.

“Wut?” he grunted, half-slumbering. Sylvie giggled at his stupid expression.

“I’ll go to Rowena first.”

Before they could ask anything else, she was off to where the witch was standing alone. Rowena turned around when she heard the patter of quick footsteps.

“Hello darlin’,” she said, belatedly returning her greeting. Sylvie smiled, and pulled her hidden hand forward and thrust it up to the witch’s eyes. Rowena peered down.

It was a bunch of wildflowers—the color of brilliant orange. It reminded her of a sunset.

“It’s for you,” said Sylvie, unabashedly. “They reminded me of your hair. Both are so pretty.”

“Oh…”

For a moment, Rowena didn’t know what to say. Bending down, she gently plucked the fresh bouquet from the child’s hand, and tucked it behind her ear.

“Thank you, sweetie.”

And she meant it. Smiling, she patted Sylvie’s chocolate head with affection. When she straightened up again, she caught the others staring, jaws gaping apart.

“It’s rude to stare!” she called out, smirking smugly.

Next, Sylvie approached Crowley. The king of Hell raised a heavy eyebrow. “Me?” he asked, making the question sound more like a lament. She nodded, and rummaged around her left pants pocket. When she found what she was looking for, she gripped it tightly and presented him with a closed fist. “Open it,” she ordered, anticipation in her voice. Crowley rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Grumbling something about “being so lame,” he unclenched her fist with a careless flick of a finger.

Sitting on her palm was an amazingly, astoundingly, spectacularly round stone the color of ebony. It also happened to be very smooth and very flat.

“Oh goody,” he grunted , holding it up to the light. “The perfect skipping stone.”

“It matches with your suit,” Sylvie pointed out, missing the dripping sarcasm. “You always wear black, but me and Sam and Dean _never_ wear black. Thought you might need a friend.”

The Winchesters guffawed, much to the demon’s annoyance.

At least he didn’t skip the stone on the spot. He was tempted, but considering how his mother was frowning at him, decided to retain some decency by stowing it away with his red handkerchief. Besides, the kid was kinda cute. Annoying as Heaven, but cute.

“Let’s see what you got for the others,” he said gruffly, nudging her forward.

Next was Castiel. Sylvie was visibly more nervous than when she’d approached the other two, for obvious reasons. She’d always felt an awkward detachment between themselves, never really knowing why. She knew Crowley didn’t entirely like her, but she was fine with it because the demon resorted to hinting at his dislike by taunting her outright with sarcastic nicknames like “princess” or “coconut”. It was easy to deal with, since she could always taunt him right back with stuff like “black-jack” or “crow.” At least those exchanges sounded natural. At least those were real interactions. But Castiel’s aloofness that toed the line between overt civility and cool disinterest—that was harder. Even when her questions were answered, she never really felt satisfied with his toneless replies. She silently prayed for this moment to act as a softener between them.

She pulled out a small glass vial she’d borrowed from Rowena earlier that day. It was filled with clear liquid. Water.

“At first I wanted to give you the lake,” she explained shyly. “Because your eyes are so blue. But the whole lake was too big to fit into my pockets. So I put only a little bit in a bottle.”

She dropped her eyes to the gift in her hands.

“It doesn’t look so blue anymore,” she mumbled, holding it out apologetically for the angel to take.

Cas did.

He felt himself melt.

“I…I like it.”

Sylvie quickly looked up, eyes wide. Cas tried to give her a smile, like Sam or Dean would’ve done. Judging by the way her whole face lit up, he hadn’t failed.

“Thank you,” he added a beat later.

“You’re welcome!” she beamed. Her entire posture relaxed in relief.

“Aww, he finally thaws,” Dean whispered, at which Sam smiled. He was glad the angel was making progress with their girl.

Sylvie continued with the distribution.

“This is for you, Dean.”

His present was a rather large stone, which would’ve been as smooth and black as Crowley’s if it weren’t for the soft green moss blanketing its surface. The moss was fresh and moist, and the color combination worked well.

“Your eyes are so green,” she complimented. “The only thing green enough here to match them was the moss, so…”

“Thanks, Sylv.” Dean chuckled, turning the furry stone in his hands. “I’ll keep it as a pet rock.”

Sam came last. When she reached him, instead of handing him his present, she clambered up his leg and perched on his knees, snuggling up with childish comfortableness. Sam threw an arm around her shoulders. 

“What, nothing for me?” he asked, pretending to be disappointed.

“Of course there’s something for you,” Sylvie replied, enjoying how he played along. Stuffing both hands into her now nearly empty pockets, she scooped up handfuls of something from each side. From her left came acorns. From her right, chestnuts. She spilled all of them into the basket that was Sam’s waiting hands, struggling to keep them together without letting a single one drop. They jiggled and bounced this way and that.

“I like playing with your hair,” she began to explain. “They’re almost the same color as mine, though yours are darker. The ones with caps on them are like mine, and the bigger ones with pointy tips are like yours. They’re called acorns and…and…”

“Chestnuts.”

“Chestnuts. Aren’t they cute?” she giggled. “Acorns are my favorite. But the ones with holes in them weren’t as pretty, so I threw them out.”

“That’s good. The holey ones have bugs in them.”

“Oh.”

Sylvie thought about it for a minute. Then she shrugged.

“That wouldn’t have been so bad.”

She toyed with a stray nut or two.

“You’ll keep them, right?”

“Of course,” Sam reassured her, sliding the mixed bunch into one of his zipper-pockets. His hand bumped against a leather string in the process, reminding him of something.

Something he hadn’t yet told Dean.

“Actually…I have something for you, too.”

Tugging at the string, he pulled out Sylvie’s gift from his jeans.

It was a necklace, simple and rustic with a leather loop for a chain and a single pendant the size of a kindergartner’s pinkie finger. He’d made it with his own hands, which explained the humble design. But what really caught the others’ attention wasn’t its simplicity or lack of craftsmanship—it was the pendant. It swung and caught the mellowing sunlight of the afternoon, glinting clearly for everyone to see.

It was a cross.

A silver cross.

He’d made it out of two melted bullets.

Cas and Dean instantly stiffened at the sight.

_What the hell is he thinking._

The irony was suffocating.

Sylvie, unaware of the potential danger, looked at it with appraising eyes.

“Where did you get this?” she asked. She hadn’t touched it yet. Sam uttered a nonverbal prayer to the absentee God above for this to please, please work.

“I made it myself. It took a couple days to get it right. Here, give me your hand.”

Sylvie obediently showed her palm for him. Cas and Dean stared the cross dangling just an inch above the child’s flesh, disturbed and uneasy. Even Crowley and Rowena, who couldn’t understand the alarming shift in the atmosphere, asked nothing just yet. 

Sam held his breath.

He dipped the necklace down lower. The cross grazed her skin.

Neither reacted to each other.

Exhaling, he abruptly let it go and dropped the whole thing onto her hand.

Nothing.

As if nothing had happened—because nothing _had_ happened—Sylvie tried it on, oblivious to the narrow escape she’d just made.

“I like it, Sam. Thanks,” she smiled, blushing with pleasure. Sam could only smile back, muscles loosened all of a sudden. He combed a hand through her hair and told himself that it was okay, that it had worked.

_This is a symbol, Sylvie._

“Nice necklace,” Dean spoke up, clearing his throat.

_That you’re not what your father is:_

“Can I have a look?”

_A monster;_

“Sure, Dean.”

_A sinner._

“Ah, let’s see…”

_You’re an angel._

Dean turned the little cross between his fingers. There was nothing on the front. But when he flipped it to the back, he could observe some clumsy engravings on the surface. They were letters. He had to squint to make them out.

Three words. In Latin.

_Omnibus Christi Veniam._

Oh.

_Christ Pardoned All._

Sylvie wore the necklace every day. Except when she showered and slept, the cross which should have burned her skin stayed intact on her body at all times. Sam’s little intervention made it no more harmless to her than it was to Castiel. When he explained to Dean what this little gift meant, and how he’d countered the silver-allergy with the holiest language he knew—the language of exorcism and baptism and supernatural properties—his brother whistled.

“Wow, I mean, good for you, but that was some stunt you pulled. What if it didn’t work? You know there _are_ more fail-proof ways to de-nuke things like that, right?”

“Right, things like witch-crafted protection sigils, Demonic wardings, Enochian shielding-magic, stuff like that?” said Sam contemptuously. “I did my research, Dean. But using them will only prove Sylvie’s a freak who needs ‘magic’ to restrain her. Not exactly what I’m tryin’ to get across the room, is it?”

“Well, if you say so,” said Dean, shrugging. He was just glad Sylvie hadn’t experienced another child-therapy-inducing trauma.

 

After that day at Lake Geheimnis, the brothers took Sylvie out more often. Small unpopulated walks with more elderly persons than joggers with dangling earphones were their most frequent haunts. They were more accessible and involved less muscle-pulls than the hiking trails Sylvie seemed to prefer. Whenever they set out, they always reminded her— _don’t use your powers when you’re outside. It’s okay when you’re at home, but you have to stay low and be careful in public, okay?_

Sometimes, Sylvie wanted to know.

_Be careful of what?_

Whenever she asked, Dean would simply say,

_Big bad wolves._

Still, most of their days were spent in inside. It wasn’t as if the bunker was stuffy or too small to accommodate two adults and one child, and there was always Netflix to lean on when no salt-and-burns rolled their way.

It was one of those typically quiet days—evening to be exact—when Sylvie came across a fancy lore book, with gold letters and cheap gems studded into the spine. It was too “gaudy” for her taste, but she opened it anyway for lack of something more interesting at the moment. She gasped quietly when a terrifyingly vivid illustration of a Changeling popped out.

She hadn’t expected that.

Sam glanced down from his laptop.

“What is it?”

“Umm…”

She turned the page. Another gruesome image, this time of Medusa and all her snakes lunging for the viewer with their poisonous fangs bared, sticking out wildly in all directions. The monstrous woman’s face was scrunched up and hardened with malice. Behind that, a shapeshifter shedding its skin. The process was illustrated with great detail, the reds and pinks and fleshy chunks of sickening waste standing out. Sylvie shuddered, but couldn’t quite look away. There was a touch of the morbid in this kind of fascination.

“Are these all real?” she asked. Dean strolled over to where she sat cross-legged on the carpet.

“Yup,” he replied, scanning the stomach-achy picture with distaste. “They’re all out there somewhere, everywhere, anywhere.”

Sylvie wrinkled her nose.

“Ew.”

“But not here,” Sam assured her. “And they’re kept in check by hunters.”

“Like Robin Hood?” she asked hopefully. She liked Disney animations and had a lowkey crush on the dashing fox.

“Like _us,_ ” Dean corrected. He had pride in what they did, and didn’t bother to hide it. “Sam and I, we hunt down those sons of—kinds of things and save people’s necks.”

“It’s the family business,” added Sam. “We’ve been doing it since we were kids.”

“Wow.”

She looked back and forth between the shapeshifter and the duo in awe.

“You’re stronger than these?”

“I guess you could say that,” said Dean, considering. “We were trained like soldiers by our dad. That, plus weapons plus some teamwork, and—”

He thwacked his knee with a fist.

“The day is saved.”

“Like superheroes!”

They were definitely making an impression on her. Dean hummed, delicate crowfeet appearing beside his eyes as he grinned. Sam shifted in his seat, slightly more uncomfortable with the praise than his brother.

“I’m not gonna lie, we’re not perfect,” he told her. “We do make mistakes and…wrong choices.”

“What kind of mistakes?” Sylvie asked curiously. She watched as her almost-dad put on a rueful smile.

“They’re so many,” he said, a half-attempted laugh dying on his lips. “I, uh…I let Lucifer out of his Cage, for one thing.”

Sylvie raised her eyebrows.

“You said he escaped.”

“He got out twice. The first time, it was actually me who let him out,” he confessed.

“And it was him who shoved the bastard down to Hell again,” Dean intervened, giving him a look. “He fixed what he broke and did right.”

Sam lowered his eyes with a grateful smile.

“And the second time?”

“That was Cas, although he can’t take all the blame,” Sam explained. “I triggered something first, and that kind of lead him to invite Lucifer upstairs.”

Sylvie nodded thoughtfully. Something struck her.

“You said Lucifer hurt people when he was up here,” she stated. 

Sam nodded. Was she going to blame him?

_Wouldn’t be the first time, anyway._

“But if you hadn’t let him out,” she continued carefully, measuring her words. “If you hadn’t triggered…whatever you triggered… I wouldn’t be here right now.”

A pause. She looked up and saw hazel.

“Would I?” she whispered.

Sam wished he could tell her anything else than—

“No.”

He looked down at her sadly. Sylvie nodded quick and hard, as if to say his answer didn’t upset her.

“I’m here at the cost of a lot of people,” she said softly. Sam and Dean glanced at each other uneasily. She had a look of calm earnestness on her face that clashed strangely with its young features, still a baby in their appearances.

“I’ll try not to make mistakes, Sam.”

It was a vague, simple promise, uttered by an innocent who barely knew what was going on out there in the big scary world. But there was determination in her voice. Because,

_My very existence is a mistake._

~*~*~*~

At the end of the year—a full 8 months since Lucifer’s re-banishment to the Cage—Sylvie was technically seven and technically twelve at the same time. She didn’t giggle hysterically at Dean’s bad jokes anymore and cried while watching Harry Potter. She began to make a hobby out of drawing and spent more time snooping around hidden corners in the bunker than sitting quietly on the carpet for hours. Her powers were maturing as well.

But that wasn’t all.

There was something she needed to talk about.

It was on one late morning after breakfast, when Sam and Dean and Cas were talking about a problematic demon-nest near Dallas, that she discreetly tugged on Sam’s sleeve.

“Sam, can I talk to you?”

Her low voice didn’t carry into the other two’s ears, as they were busy devising plans to ransack the nest. Sam noticed how she tried to make herself as unnoticeable to them as possible, as if she didn’t want all three of their attention at once. He could tell she wanted to talk alone.

“Sure, Sylv. Go wait in your room a second?”

 Nodding, she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. After a word to the others, Sam followed suit down the corridor. When he got to her room, she was sitting on the bed with her feet dangling down the mattress. Sam dragged a spinning chair from under the desk and pulled himself up in front of her.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, carefully searching her face. She looked uncertain, not quite knowing how to answer the question. If he meant okay as in I’m-not-sick-or-hurt, then she was. If he meant okay as in everything-as-it-should-be, she wasn’t so sure.

“Well…” she began, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “There’s something I haven’t told you, about me. About my powers.”

She peeked up to monitor his expression. He didn’t look mad or annoyed at the fact she’d kept something from him. His eyes were open and kind, although he couldn’t quite hide the flash of apprehension in them.

“Okay,” said Sam calmly. He didn’t want to make her more nervous than she already was. “I’m all ears.”

Even though Sylvie had planned beforehand how to open up on the subject and how she would proceed, she still had to deliberate for a minute. Sam patiently waited for her. He knew how some things were hard to talk about, even if you wanted to.

At last, she spoke.

“I get these…feelings. It happens all the time, but it…I think it gets stronger when I use my powers. I’ve always felt it, it’s always _there._ At first I didn’t notice—I was too little or the feeling was too weak or something. But it’s growing, like me. And now it’s getting harder to just ignore it.”

Sam listened, perfectly perplexed.

“Wait, what _feelings?_ ” he asked, clueless. Sylvie ran a hand through her hair.

“It’s hard to explain,” she said, frustrated. “It’s like…someone’s watching you. But when you turn around to see if someone’s really watching you, there’s no one behind you. But mine’s a little different from that. It’s more like, like, someone’s—reaching a hand toward me, but I can’t reach back, you know? I can’t…grab that hand. Like my arm’s too short or, or that hand’s drawing back before I can touch it. You know what I mean?”

To be honest, Sam had no idea what she was talking about.

He blinked.

“Ugh, I can’t _explain_ it!” she cried, throwing up her hands in punctuation. “I need to know what this is, I need to know _who_ this is..!”

“So you think it’s a person?” Sam asked, not knowing what to think, but it did sound completely creepy. Honestly, this had come completely out of the blue and he felt skeptical even as he asked her, “You think someone’s trying to…what, communicate?”

“I don’t know, maybe? But, but it’s more like it wants my attention. It doesn’t feel like it’s trying to say something, it’s just…reaching out. Like tapping me on the shoulder, except I feel it from _inside._ I can’t describe it, Sam.”

She put her head between her hands. Sam looked at her, disconcerted.

“Does it scare you?” he asked worriedly. How was he supposed to comfort her if she was upset about something where he was a total blind-man? Strangely enough, she shook her head.

“No, no, not scary, it’s just...really frustrating, you know? Like it’s teasing me. I know this makes it even weirder but it doesn’t creep me out as much as it should.”

Sam racked his brain for anything realistic (or supernatural) enough to explain this phenomena. Hallucination? Schizophrenia? Ghosts? Invisible Man? None of them came even close.

“Honestly Sylv, I don’t know. But we’ll figure this out. We always do.”

Sylvie nodded, somewhat doubtful. She’d hoped to get answers from him. Instead it looked like she was stuck with this tantalizing enigma for a while longer.

Not a whole lot longer, though. But she didn’t know that yet.  

After patting her on the shoulder, Sam immediately left to spill it to the others. Unfortunately, they were just as baffled as he was.

“It _could_ be the grace inside her responding to the grace inside her father,” mulled Cas. “Genetic connections, or…but the archives never mentioned special bonds, genetic or psychological.”

“Is there anything in the archives about parent-child relationships with Nephilims?” Sam queried.

“Almost nothing,” admitted Cas. “Except for that part about the angel parent often abandoning his half-human offspring, there’s nothing. It’s a very taboo subject in Heaven, and few scribes are willing to put it to record. Besides, there was never much to begin with. There’s only been 4 Nephilims in the course of human history, including Sylvie.”

“But if this is about ‘genetic connections’ or ‘psychological bonds’ or whatever, that means it’s about Lucifer,” Dean groaned, grimacing. When no one denied him, his grimace  practically turned into a scowl.

“Awesome. Ain’t this getting better and better every day.”

 

They had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. The whole logic behind Sam's necklace is weak, but I put a lot of thought to it and it was one of my efforts to render Sylvie as human as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

Lucifer smirked to himself in the corner of the dusty booth that wasn’t his. It belonged to an old man in his seventies, thin with poverty and hoary with age. He barely kept himself fed as a street-performing marionette master, attracting stray dogs and pedestrians on park benches in the daytime and cleaning painted wooden dolls with oiled joints in the evening. This booth was his home—a poor one. Certainly defenseless against an archangel who’d been looking for someone to slip inside. Lucifer had convinced him that he was his long-lost granddaughter, come for a teary reunion. The illusion had worked perfectly against his frail sentiments.

Now, he was possessed.

He wouldn’t last long, though. Lucifer could tell this was the weakest vessel he’d ever taken. It was barely holding him now, and would break in much less than an hour. But it didn’t matter.

Lucifer didn’t need an hour.

 ** _Now_** _,_ he thought pleasantly. **_Let’s not make this difficult, hmm?_**

 _You’re not Marie. Who the hell are you?_ The old man asked rigidly, voice shaky with fear. He tried to grab his walking stick from the wall and defend himself from whoever this intruder was, but found he couldn’t even get a finger to twitch. Lucifer clucked his tongue.

 ** _Rude, considering how much older I am than you,_** he tut-tutted. ** _I’m entitled to be called “sir” by any one of you raisin-heads._**

_I said who the he—_

**_Long story short, I’m in your noggin._** Lucifer replied boringly. Really, how many times had he said this line? He’d lost count some time ago. Toying with Sapiens’ minds and threatening them inside their grapefruits were kind of getting old for him. Or _he_ was getting too old for _them._

Not that he didn’t know how to enjoy himself when business came down to business.

**_Which means I can tap into any and every part of your brain and make you do anything and everything—or nothing. The answer’s closest to ‘nothing’ cuz you’re gonna be a prisoner in your own head for a while. Now excuse me while I control your body, bye._ **

_What—?!_

Shutting him up in the dimmest part of his anatomy, Lucifer got up from his seat, gathered a couple of puppets on strings along with a cheap boombox, and stepped outside into the sun. It was a cool December noon, the air crisp and dry, just how he liked it. Breathing deeply, he straightened his vessel’s crooked back and started off toward the park bench where the old man was accustomed to sit every day. Frequent visitors to the park greeted him in a friendly manner whenever they ran into him, and Lucifer gave them an aged smile in return.

“Hiya, Ian!”

“Good morning.”

 ** _Ian is such a boring name,_** he commented lazily. **_I don’t know why, but it always reminds me of a turtle._**

_You get out this instant!_

**_Oh sure. After I take care of some business, okay?_ **

Then he added in a dark undertone he knew would scare him,

**_I doubt you’ll survive this, though._ **

It wasn’t long before he reached the same bench that the old man’s memory pointed out to him. It was at the very heart of the park, where there were the most people. Naturally. It looked like a good spot to stage his “performance.”

**_And what a performance it’s gonna be._ **

What was more, there were even more people than usual because it was Saturday.

Sitting down on the worn painted bench, he arranged the wooden dolls and hooked his fingers to their strings. He didn’t forget to turn on the boombox. A low string of a folky Scottish jig started playing, which quickly dissolved into the background noises of life.

 ** _You’ll do exactly as I say, understand?_** He commanded. When the old man didn’t answer him, he added, **_Or you can just drop dead right now with a one-eighty twisted neck._** He felt the old prune shudder at the threat.

 _What do you want?_ He asked feebly. That was more like it.

 ** _I want you to make these dolls dance for me,_** he ordered, as easily as if he was in a burger-store instead of a human body. **_I’m gonna let you take control of your hands, and only your hands, mind. No screamin’ and yellin’s gonna work here._**

He felt more than saw Ian nod in silent defeat. This was going good. He detached a small particle of his being from his two hands, sliding upward just enough for the old man to take back his wrists. Lucifer watched his hands closely through creased eyes, ready to snap the fingers in twos and threes if they made any movement to release the dolls. He turned up the music louder, so that anyone a few feet away could distinctly hear it jiggling away from the bench.

**_Start. Now._ **

Slowly, poor Ian began to pull the strings. He had to do his utmost to stop his hands from shaking and tangling up the lines. The only thing that saved him from the trouble was his thirty years’ worth of experience in public. And Lucifer wasn’t going to deny it, he was good at what he did—he knew his stuff and knew the dolls as if they were his own children.

**_Children…_ **

Lucifer had developed a strange, mixed-feelings thing for the word not long ago. It was longing and animosity mashed up in one bag all at once. How many times he’d speculated, mused and asked questions in the dark that no one answered nor heard in the Cage, he’d lost count. Most of his questions had been about Nephilims. He didn’t like to admit, not even to himself, that all of them had made him think of his own child. It was annoying, how messy and vulnerable his mind was becoming.

A few dark skinned tourists stopped to look at what they were doing. They pointed and laughed good naturedly at the puppets merrily tapping away on the ground, taking pictures with their phones. That caused a couple of kids—who’d been too shy to step right up to the old man—to spunk up and draw closer. Ian tried to smile at them encouragingly. That’s what he usually would’ve done. But his facial muscles wouldn’t budge, and then he remembered he wasn’t in charge of them anymore. It was so easy to forget he wasn’t the one behind the wheel. He couldn’t even grit his teeth in irritation.

Lucifer jerked his arm up and tugged his cap off his head to lay it invitingly on the ground in front of his feet. The tourists, delighted, cast some dollars in. One little boy rummaged in his pockets until it coughed up a small lemon-drop that looked ancient. That, too, went into the cap. Lucifer nodded his thanks, keeping his head down and eyes fixed on the dolls to hide the unpleasant sneer creeping across his features. If anyone had seen it, it would have reminded them of a spider ready for the kill. But no one did, and no one knew about the web it was weaving away.

Perhaps it was the louder music. Perhaps it was the Saturday population. Perhaps it was just bad luck. Whatever the reason was, today’s crowd eventually grew to a size a bit larger than his average audience. Ian watched as more and more people gathered around to see his performance. His hands worked furiously to hide their unbearable fear. He didn’t know why his intruder was telling him to do what he’d been already doing almost every day, and his apprehension only grew when, suddenly, Lucifer stood up and once again regained control of everything.

**_My turn._ **

Taking a sweeping glance around the crowd, he spread his arms wide and asked in true showman-style,

“Did you like that? Was I good?”

A general assent and smatterings of applause. Little kids were the most enthusiastic. They cheered and whooped and clung to their mommies’ arms. He gave them a sharky grin that no one thought particularly sinister.

“I’ve been marionette-ing for decades now,” he told the crowd, raising his voice a little. It rasped slightly. “I’ve tried my hands at a lot of different things, and this is nothing compared to what I’m gonna show you folks now.”

General cheering again.

Lucifer licked his lips. The fools were enjoying this.

“Let’s work some magic.”

Lifting up his arms, he flicked both wrists with a joint-popping _snap_.

All forty living and breathing bodies pivoted once on their heels in unison.

One swift, undivided, perfectly timed movement.

For a moment, everyone stood still and rigid, stunned. One second they’d been facing the old man, the next they were… In that short split of silence, all of them were thinking the same thing.

_Wha..?_

A minute later, the youngsters burst out giggling and the expected cacophony of voices broke out like a busted dam.

“Wow.”

“Oh my god!”

“How did he do that?”

“Looks like we walked into a prank.”

“I bet there are cameras somewhere…”

“Did he just use freakin’ mind-powers??!”

Lucifer stood there, watching them with an almost majestic air that went well with his malicious eyes. Watching these roaches crawl on the ground, blind and clueless, he felt a surge of filthy superiority. After all, he was the one with the element of surprise. He rubbed his hands together, thinking of the minutes to come. When he’d decided he’d had quite enough, he cupped a hand to his mouth.

**“SILENCE!”**

His angelically magnified voice carried all the way to the very outskirts of the squirming crowd, now blown larger, thanks to all the commotion. Now there were fifty-five. Everyone turned to look at him, even more shocked at the absence of a megaphone. A hundred and ten eyes followed him as he jumped up to stand on the wooden bench. Looking down impressively on their upturned faces, Lucifer smiled.

“Would you like to know my secret?” he asked calmly. He wasn’t particularly expecting a reply, but he waited anyway. When some eager individuals had bobbed their heads up and down, he reached down for the boombox. The Scottish jig came to an end. Now it began to play an old jazz song. Loui Armstrong’s.

“Well, I’m afraid it’s nothing all that special,” he said, turning up the volume even further. The opening lyrics were heard.

 _“I see trees of green, red roses too_ …”

Straightening up, he pretended to brush the dust from his sleeves.

“I just, you know, set the tune…”

_“I seem them bloom for me and you…”_

Raising his hands once more, he clasped them together and then slowly brought them apart. As he did so, the crowd split clean in two. People jostled against each other as they were pushed and pulled, backwards or forwards depending on where they’d stood. Foots were stepped upon and some even managed to trip. A little boy was knocked onto the ground, hitting his knees, hard. He let out a cry of pain that no one could possibly pay much attention to.

_“And I think to myself what a wonderful world…”_

“…and everybody dances to it.”

Splaying five fingers wide, he flung dozens of participants into different directions and set the rest of them doing dangerously acrobatic ballets moves with his other five. Other people’s arms were flung into the faces of other people. Glasses were knocked out or, in one case, completely shattered and pierced the eyes of one man. Blood streamed from the mutilation as he struggled and howled in pain. Limbs and bodies tangled together in frightening confusion. Helpless youngsters no more than six or seven were trampled to the ground as the larger bodies tugged, sashayed, and spiraled against their will. Shouts of horror were heard through the noise of friction between the ground and various shoes. Blood, bruises, sweat, and tears permeated the thick air and spread faster than the plague.

It was utter pandemonium.

And all the while, the music played.

_“I hear baby’s cry, and I watched them grow…”_

Lucifer’s fingers ghost through the air in fluid motions, as if he was playing the piano. His eyes were closed.

_“They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know…”_

Very softly, he hummed along.

_“And I think to myself…”_

He stopped, and held still. Every exhausted body hung, some portion of their meat suspended in the air. Excepting, of course, the ones lying motionless on the ground. Ragged breathing and coughing. Billows of dust and dirt.

_“What a wonderful world…”_

He released his hold.

They all collapsed down with one sick, disheartening thud.

And the song serenely delivered its final line.

_“Yes, I think to myself what a wonderful world…”_

~*~*~*~

“At approximately twelve-thirty this afternoon, a mass confusion arose at Overland Park, involving more than fifty individuals. According to witness, Ian Keats, an elderly street-performer that frequented the park, suddenly lead fierce crowds to fight against each other during a performance. By the time the police arrived at the scene, thirty people were seriously injured and two were killed, including Ian himself. Some witnesses claim to have seen Ian suddenly drop dead without any warning. Both victims and witnesses have no explanation as to why or how this unfortunate event happened.”

A motion-shaken video footage appeared onscreen. Sam and Dean watched, disturbed, as the appalling event unfolded before their eyes.

“Guy must be possessed,” Dean muttered, frowning at the blurry image of Ian conducting the whole apocalyptic scene. “He’s using telekinesis. You think it’s a demon?”

“I’ve never heard of demons acting like that,” said Sam, mouth slightly hanging open. He noticed the boombox on the bench and suddenly felt even sicker as he realized what song it was playing. “Whatever it is, we should go check it out.”

“Yeah, it definitely looks like our kinda thing.”

Dean was about to turn off the TV when, suddenly, Castiel and Crowley appeared before them. Both wore an identical look of extreme unease.

“Something wrong? Other than that, of course.” Dean gestured to the news, where the reporter was back on camera. Neither bothered to spare it a glance.

 _“Something?”_ Crowley growled, brows almost connecting into one line. “Everything is wrong!”

“Boys, I don’t know how to ease you into this, but—”

“Lucifer’s out!”

The boys froze. Sam chocked on his own spit and coughed, effectively breaking the pause before it happened. Realization slapped him across the balls even as Dean sputtered out.

“What! Then, then that old prune’s actually—?”

He pointed an offensive finger at the screen, which was featuring the videotape again. Sam grimaced.

“Was,” he corrected. “Was possessed by Lucifer. He must’ve killed him before leaving.” He heaved a sigh, stomach tightening with guardedness. Deep down, they’d known something like this was bound to happen someday all along. “Do we know where Lucifer is right now?”

“Unfortunately we don’t have angel GPS,” said Cas. “So, no.”

“I don’t think we need GPS,” said Dean. “I bet the dick’s still there.”

“He could’ve killed all those people, but he didn’t,” said Sam slowly, catching on. “He just needed something to get our attention. He knew we’d be interested…You think he’s waiting for us?”

“Well, that’s our usual pattern. Somethin’ goes boom, we go bang and check out the scene of crime, right?”

“It sounds like a trap to me,” said Cas, not liking this at all. Sam rubbed his temple. He agreed, but knew they had no choice.

“All the more reason to go,” he said, trying to sound less anxious than he felt. “We were going to find him anyway. This just makes it easier for us.”

“Exactly. I wonder what’s the catch,” Dean muttered. “Oh right, a bunch of injured and dead people. Again.”

“Our life.”

They immediately began to get their things. Guns, demon dagger, holy water, holy oil and everything else they knew wouldn’t be of much use against Satan. They were about to leave, when Sam turned to Cas and Crowley.

“Could one of you, um, stay here? With Sylvie?” he asked, taming his tone as politely as he could. “If Lucifer’s out, it means he’s after her. The bunker’s a safe place, but.” He shrugged, eyes wide and pleading. “Please? We can’t leave her alone.”

Cas and Crowley looked at each other. When neither of them said anything, (and with the pair of puppy dog eyes watching them,) the angel caved.

“Of course, Sam. I’ll stay with her.”

Sam was relieved to find he sounded only half reluctant. After thanking him, he turned to Crowley.

“You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss a chance to throw a kick at the dog.”

Just before the demon teleported the three of them to Oakville Park, Dean asked Sam in a low voice,

“Were you really gonna leave Crowley alone in the bunker with Sylv if he volunteered?”

“I knew he wouldn’t,” he whispered back. “But I did see he kept the stone she gave him. It’s still inside his breast pocket.”

“Shut up Moose, before I send you off to the other side of town.”

 

By the time they arrived at the scene, there were news reporters clamoring around the policemen and ambulances and crying children and babbling hosts of onlookers everywhere. Yellow tape and white uniforms flashed on and off the streets, going back and forth between police cars, stretchers, and the poor worn-down bench. Volunteers from a nearby hospital rushed in to help. Walkie-talkies crackled all over the place. Sam, Dean and Crowley searched the crowd for red eyes or a fiendish grin, anything that might indicate possession.

“There.”

They looked to where Crowley pointed. Off to the back, a little apart from the heart of the confusion, stood a man. Fair-skinned with brown hair, he seemed to exist in a bubble of his own calmness. As soon as he caught Sam’s eyes, his own mild-green ones glowed burgundy. He was, without a doubt, Lucifer.

Skirting around the off-limited piece of pavement, they approached him. As they drew closer, they could make out strong imposing eyebrows, an extremely tall stature that rivaled the younger Winchester’s, and broad shoulders. He was wearing a white shirt, buttoned down in a narrow V. On top of it, a suit jacket the color of the darkest navy. His stance was easy enough, but his face was set, expression dark.

“Jo from _Halt and Catch Fire_ much?” Dean muttered to Sam. “He looks like a frigging Lee Pace doppelganger.”

Sam didn’t reply.

A couple meters away, they stopped. For a minute, neither party spoke. Lucifer assessed the small group, settling his gaze on each of them in turn. Each of them felt his glance on their foreheads like a physical weight, pressing against their skin in an odd sort of solidarity. It would have unnerved them if they hadn’t experienced it before. Especially Sam. He could feel Lucifer’s eyes lingering on him with an air that was something between a glare and a sneer. It irked him, and all he could do was glare back.

All of them looked back at him straight and square, defiant.

“So.”

Lucifer’s new voice bore down on them. A corner of his mouth turned up slightly. The smirk didn’t reach the rest of his face.

“I knew you’d crawl out of your hole.”

“What we don’t know is how _you_ crawled out of _your_ hole,” Dean retorted. “I thought you needed a ride out?”

“So I took one. A fire deity trapped in Hell and a rotting Cage—perfect ingredients for a Shawsank Redemption of my own. Except for the redemption part, of course.”

Lucifer took a step forward.

“But enough chit-chat. You already know why I’m here.”

A menacing darkness lurked behind the mild green of his irises.

“Where is my daughter?”

They could tell—this wasn’t a question. This was a demand, a command for them to bring her out. Sam’s mind instantly went back to the bunker where Sylvie and Cas were stationed, (at least for the time being) safely away from the madness. The muscles around his eyes tightened, narrowing them. It was an instinctual protective reaction from his body. He was about to ask what he was going to do her, when his brother spoke first.

“Someplace safe. Where you can’t get your dirty fingers on her. Where Cas’s playing nanny.”

Lucifer tilted his head to the side. His piercing eyes focused on Dean and Dean alone.

“Is she, now.”

Dean huffed. He lifted up his chin to meet the archangel’s gaze unflinchingly. His opponent simply stared on, unblinking as a fish in a tank. The archangel didn’t have the need to moisturize his eyeballs every five seconds. Dean did. He was only human.

When he finally blinked after twenty, Lucifer looked away. 

Clearly, they were not about to give her up. Not now, at least. But he hadn’t abandoned his brother in the rotting bowls of Hell to be refused. He hadn’t nursed all that resentment and endlessly repetitive recollections of his first memories of his child to take a _no_ for an answer. For a second, through the building fury, he felt an insane urge to laugh.

_Do these monkeys really think I don’t know what they’re planning?_

As they watched, a shadow fell across his face. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously soft, barely a growl. Almost as if he was talking to himself.

“This game you’re playing, it’s low. Almost as low as me.”

“What?”

Sam asked, caught off guard. The others glanced at each other. They didn’t understand what he was saying. Sam watched Lucifer closely, and realized he’d touched an already stretched nerve.

“I know why you stole her from me.”

_We didn’t steal from you._

“We didn’t—”

“You know Nephilims are strong, and powerful, and superior,” said Lucifer, taking another step forward. “You know how powerful the offspring of an archangel like her can be. You robbed me of her and cared for her so you could turn her into your puppet, your brave little soldier, and **USE HER AGAINST ME!** ”

Crowley’s heart gave a guilty thump that no one but the Devil heard. The lines of his face had hardened as he spoke, eyes grown larger and pupils reduced smaller with rage. His jaws were rigid. Sam tried to wrap his head around the accusation, because all along they’d thought that was _his_ intentions.

What was going on.

“I guess you told her all about me,” Lucifer continued, a quivering smirk playing around is lips. “How you saved her from the big bad wolf that was her shameful father. Sent him straight to Hell with a bang of white light and poof, she’s saved. She’s grateful for it, isn’t she? Gratitude is a good motivator. Clever, clever, I’ll give you that.”

“Wait—” Sam began incredulously. Lucifer sliced him off like a finger.

“But you know what?” he snarled. “Even an archangel’s Nephilim and all of you combined will never be enough to win a battle against me! I’m the Devil himself! I’m the son that God himself threw out of Heaven, and you humans branded _Satan_ in the name of the Holy Bible, or have you forgotten that little detail? Ha!”

Another step closer.

“And here I was, thinking my Father was manipulative. He’ll say anything to get what he wants out of me, but **YOU** _,_ you’ll do anything!”

With this exclamation, he looked directly at Sam with glowing, coal-red eyes.

Sam stood there, rooted. He’d thought he’d seen it all. He’d seen Lucifer when he was cruel, when he was moody, when he was angry, when he was teasing, when he was in an unpleasantly good mood, even when he was near hysterical. He, including the rest of them, had never seen him so beside himself with pure, unadulterated rage.

It was frightening. Even when he’d tortured him, he’d done it laughing. Even when he’d argued with his Father, he’d done it sneering.

The fact that he’d gotten the picture all wrong did not lessen the effect by an inch.

Sam wished he could break the eye contact, but Lucifer held his gaze fast, vomiting out his spite through the fiery wells that were his eyes. As if he was trying to make Sam feel exactly what he felt. A switch had flipped inside him, a switch that made his mere voice a roll of thunder.

Literally.

Somewhere not far away, a menacing rumble could be heard among the fast-greying clouds. Wind was starting to pick up, sending the withered leaves strewn across the streets dancing to the tune of his storm.

Hours and days could have passed by for all he knew, until he managed to squeeze his eyes shut through sheer will power.

_Lucifer._

He didn’t want to see the chaotic tangle behind those burning orbs, the catastrophic damage the world and the Fallen had done to himself.

_No matter where you are, you haven’t escaped Hell. How can you?_

He couldn’t bear to share the pain.

The inhuman pain that wasn’t his.

_When Hell is what’s inside you._

When he dared to lift his eyelids again, the angel’s scalding eyes had already dulled.

Before any one of them could recover himself sufficiently enough to speak, Lucifer opened his mouth. He lowered the volume to a coolness that was colder and sleeker than a marble floor.

“Bring me my child,” he commanded quietly. “Don’t show up by midnight, and I promise to ravage everything to the ground by two in the morning. Don’t believe me?”

He leveled the challenge on all three of them. Their muscles worked to repress a shudder.

“Try me.”

He was gone.

 

Back at the bunker, their minds were in chaos. As soon as they reached their hall, they urgently pulled Castiel into the library, making sure to lock the door behind them. Sam was still slightly dazed when they related the ultimatum to him. He already felt as if the minute hand of the clock was racing towards the appointed time with cruel speed, tick-tick-ticking away.

Lucifer’s hell-riddled eyes haunted him.

“Tonight? _Tonight_ midnight?”

“I know.”

“We can’t defeat Lucifer or stop the world from burning or fix the Cage or make God come down in ten hours!”

“I seriously doubt we could do any one of those if we had all year.”

“Maybe the BDL knows something.”

“BDL?”

“British Dicks of Letters.”

Dean didn’t even snort as he presented the newly coined term, nor did the others.

“They don’t know anything about this Lucifer-crap we’re dealing with,” said Sam, recoiling from the idea. “If they find out anything about this, they’re bound to find out about Sylvie. We’re not risking that.”

Dean didn’t argue. Both brothers’ chests squirmed as they remembered Kate and Magda.

“I don’t think they’ve got a manual for this kind of stuff, anyway.”

The discussion lasted for an exhausting length of time, and they did not emerge from the locked door until hours had passed. By the time they finally did, their heads ached and everyone was feeling slightly green.

Seeing Sam, Dean, Cas and Crowley file out from their mysterious conference, Sylvie immediately jumped up from the couch. She was about to demand to know what was going on, why they’d been so careful to keep their voices down even within their room, when Sam held up his hand to stop her.

“We’ll tell you. You should sit down for this.”

His voice was gentle, but tired. Sylvie obeyed. She tried to be patient as Sam kneaded his forehead with his hand. He’d never imagined they’d have so many difficult “talks.” He decided to go with straightforwardness—deliver the punch in one blow.

Kneeling down in front of her, he brought himself to her eyelevel and took her hands.

“Lucifer is here. And he wants to see you.”

Sylvie’s eyes went wide with shock.

“Lucifer is here?” She squeaked. “ _Here?_ ”

“Not right here in the bunker, no,” said Sam quickly. “But he’s close by.”

_He’s never far enough._

“And he wants…to see me?”

“…Yes.”

Sam hated himself for inevitably putting her in so much danger. He squeezed her hands in his.

“He said if we don’t bring you to him by midnight, he’ll tear the world apart. Sylvie, I’m sorry.”

The color in Sylvie’s cheeks paled at the news. But she did not panic nor cry nor beg to be saved. For a moment, she held herself very, very still. Her breathing picked up and her palms threatened to turn clammy, but she managed to remain astoundingly calm. She focused on the woolly carpet under her feet. Everyone watched with baited breath as she processed the situation in her head, Sam and Dean ready to catch her if she fainted.

She didn’t.

She frowned.

“No, I…I think it’s okay.”

She looked up from the carpet. Four pairs of eyes looked at her, surprised. They exchanged glances. Sylvie caught and held them in her silvery orbs.

“I think it’ll be okay.”

“Really?” said Sam, searching her face. She could tell they didn’t believe her.

“Sylv, we know you’re a big girl. But it’s okay if you’re scared or feel like pissing yourself,” said Dean. “Just…take your time wrapping your head around this.”

“Thanks, I did,” she replied, trying to put on a reassuring smile but failing. She turned back to Sam.

“Remember what I told you? About my weird feelings?” she asked, biting her lip. She didn’t want to mention this in front of everyone else, but right now wasn’t the time to have scruples about little privacies. “It suddenly got a lot more intense when I woke up this morning.”

“That’s about the time Lucifer rose again,” observed Crowley, intrigued. Hearing this, Sylvie grew certain of her suspicions.

“And right now, I feel like, like I could actually reach out, too. Sam,” she leaned in a little closer, whispering, as if to tell a secret. “I think it’s my Father.”

Sam could only nod in agreement.

“You said he’s asking for me?”

“More like ordering you like merchandise,” Dean put in helpfully. Sam gave him a look, which he promptly ignored. “But yeah, basically.”

Sylvie started off into space. She had that serious look on her again, pensive and weighed with stones so much heavier than her natural age should’ve been able to bear. She thought of what Sam had told her several weeks ago.

_Before he was evil, he was hurt and angry._

She thought of her strange connection. That sense of desperate need to bridge that gap or leap that brook to be able to hold out her hand and grab onto the extended, invisible tentacle that seemed to call for her attention; the sense of duty in it; the lack of malice or threat or fear. Maybe she was wrong in this. Or maybe she was right. Whatever the odds, she was thinking—maybe she could handle this.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a picture of Lucifer's new look. And yes, I picked actor Lee Pace (who played Thranduil in The Hobbit and Garret in Breaking Dawn) as his new vessel. Hot, isn't he? ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some heavy angst cuz this one's loaded with it.

[4 o’clock]

 

According to plan, Crowley brought Rowena in. Having been briefed by her son, she looked pinched and worried when she arrived.

“I don’t like the look of things,” she muttered as she set to work. They’d asked her to provide Sylvie with some protective measures. Of course Sam and Dean would never send her over to slumber-party with Lucifer without one or two. This time, she didn’t remind them of their IOUs. She simply put herself to work.

Taking Sylvie’s necklace, she performed a spell on it. It wasn’t a particularly difficult spell, nor did it take long for her to finish. But the responsibility this bit of magic held was felt by her as an enormity—the life of the child she’d grown to be fond of may as well depend on it. When she was done, she called Sam to her side. Dipping the necklace in a jar of mint-colored something that was between a gas and a liquid, she coated the silver pendant with the substance .

“Hold out your wrist,” she ordered. Sam complied, turning his right hand palm-upward. He flinched a little when she pressed the pendant into his wrist, the now freezing silver biting its shape into his skin. When she removed the pendant there remained a cold, cross-shaped scar on the spot. She repeated the same process with Dean.

“It’s called an alarm-scar,” she explained to them. “Sylvie can rub this pendant between her fingers if she’s in danger. The scar on your wrists will burn cold and freeze over to alert you. I ruled out spy-bags since they’re less easier to hide and easier to break.”

“Thank you,” they said in unison. And they meant it. She simply nodded, expression somber.

“Just get to her as fast as you can when you get an alarm, all right?”

“Of course.”

Then she turned to Sylvie. Stooping low, she put the necklace back around her neck.

“Remember—rub between your fingers.”

“Okay. Thank you, Rowena.”

Before Rowena could stand up again, Sylvie threw her slender arms around her shoulders. Rowena blinked as she felt the little girl’s hands brush against her red curls. She was suddenly reminded of Oscar—how she’d hugged him just before she killed him and he died in her arms.

Pressing a hand on her narrow back, she returned the embrace with a squeeze.

She didn’t immediately return home after that. She lingered, and no one said anything about it. 

Sam gave Sylvie one of their spare phones. Pressing the rectangular shape of his wish for her into her hand, he explained when and how to use it. He’d already entered his number and Dean’s. She hung onto his every word, nodding and trying to commit everything to memory.

“If he isn’t treating you right or if you ever need anything or if you just wanna, you know, talk, just give us a call, okay?”

It was then that the realization she'd possibly never see her friends again fully hit home, and she had to struggle to keep a tear from falling.

“Okay.”

 

[6 o’clock]

 

“How do we know Lucifer’s not gonna “ravage everything to the ground ” after snagging Sylvie?”

It was a question Sam had asked himself as well, and it had taken less than a second to get the answer.

“We don’t,” he said simply. He was right—they couldn’t know for sure, and even if Lucifer planned to carry on with the lego-destruction after his child was delivered to him, they had absolutely no practical way of stopping him.

“And that’s why we’ll have to talk to him first.”

The others gave him a look that plainly said, “dude, you serious?” Crowley laughed outright.

“And you think _talking’s_ going to stop him?” he chuckled scornfully. “I’d rather talk to a boiled cabbage.”

“If he’s already made up his mind, nothing’s going to stop him,” said Sam evenly. “But if he hasn’t…then I’ve got a thing or two in mind. Just keep Sylvie away till I’m through with him.”

“While you’re at it, tell him your brother thinks he’s the worst jackass he’s met in his whole life.” Dean grumbled.

 

[11 o’clock]

 

The abandoned warehouse was cold, dark, and empty. By some miraculous bit of electricity  running through its wires, the light switch still worked by a stretch. But no one had bothered to check if it still worked. No one had bothered to approach the place for a long time.

Until tonight.

Three figures suddenly appeared within the warehouse. The switch was finally tried by one of them. Through the grime caked windows, a couple of white florescent lights could be discerned. The light, however, wasn’t comforting. If someone had been outside to watch, it would’ve reminded them of a fish tank illumination—bluish and warmthless. But there was no one. There were only the two humans and the demon, all inside the building.

Waiting, and tense.

The tall one with long brown hair cleared his throat.

“Lucifer,” Sam called out. “We made an appointment.”

For a second, everything was still.

Lucifer was behind them in the next. Instinctually sensing a celestial presence, they turned and saw him standing in the shadows. No flickering florescent reached that corner of the room. Grey with the lack of proper lighting, the only bright points of that spot were the two red eyes glaring back at the trio. They felt those eyes scanning their persona and the empty air around them.

A cool, unimpressed voice rang out.

“I see no child.”

Dean and Crowley turned their gazes expectantly at Sam, who was staring straight into that same corner where the cutting voice had issued. He swallowed before answering it.

“Cas has her. A word from me will bring him to us. A word from me will bring her to you.”

A pause, during which the red eyes looked out from unblinking eyelids. They flared just a little brighter at his less than satisfactory reply, reminding him that he was playing with fire. Then,

“Go on.”

“You will give us your word—for lack of anything better—that you will harm neither this planet nor any of its inhabitants. No second apocalypse, no toy-breaking, no temper tantrums. Your personal issues will stay personal.”

Sam made sure to intone his statements clear and firm, pulling off the kind of lawyer façade he’d use back in Stanford. He knew this wouldn’t make much of an impression on Lucifer; he just needed himself to have some steel.

Instead of the mocking laughter he’d expected, a sleek ,clipped answer was returned.

“Your memory is not as good as I thought. I distinctly remember saying this in front of you and your brother a while ago— _your words, my words, they mean nothing._ ”

“Is that so?” Sam remarked. “Is that why you waited for us instead of going ahead to destroy the world?”

When Lucifer didn’t make an immediate answer, he continued with his argument, shifting into a more confident stance. 

“You left us with an ultimatum and an impossible deadline with no third way out. You knew we were freaking out, with no solutions,” he analyzed. This was definitely his lawyer side—and rehearsal—creeping out. “The timing was perfect for a global scale destruction. Enemies out of the way with nothing to stop you. You could’ve had a lot of fun, and then come for the kid. You didn’t even have to wait for midnight.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, which were still trained to the shady corner.

“But you didn’t. Words still do mean something, after all.”

Dean and Crowley looked at each other. When had moose geared up so much? 

“And if I don’t?”

The question mark was a challenge. Sam unconsciously cracked a knuckle with his thumb.

“What?”

“If I don’t give you my word?”

“Then I’ll never bring her here,” Sam replied with an air of finality. “You’ll never find out where she is without my help, and even if you do I doubt you’d be able to break-and-enter the place.”

Lucifer made no reply on that head. Instead, he cocked his head a little. Then a little bit more. Then a little bit more. Then a little bit more. He tilted it until it was nearly perpendicular with his neck. The gruesome angle was a horrid discordance with his vessel’s refined features.

“As I’ve said,”

He took a step forward, closer to the line of light.

“Low.”

His head snapped back up with the sound of joints grinding together. Another step brought him into full view.

“So disgustingly,”

Another step forward.

**_“LOW!”_ **

The shriek had scarcely echoed through the warehouse when Lucifer was suddenly right there in front of Sam, faces barely inches apart and the latter shoved up against the wall back-first with a _bang._ Dean hadn’t taken so much as two steps to lunge at Lucifer when he was thrown back to the opposite wall with even more force. The breath was knocked out of him as he was held there, fast, not able to twitch a toe. Crowley too, was flung into the sheet of metal right alongside him.

“Enlighten me, boy!” the Devil shouted, rounding on him once more. Sam tried to reach for the demon dagger in his belt but found his arms wouldn’t move. He kept his eyes warily on Lucifer, startled and slightly trembling from the sudden proximity of Hell.

Blood-moon pits blazed wildly back at him.

“You would dangle my own child in front of me, like a carrot in front of the donkey **_and for what?_** Earth? This pitiful little planet? Don’t make me laugh, it’s a tasteless joke.”

Lucifer, now an inch taller than him, pressed menacingly close and Sam thought he couldn’t breathe, the intense heat and fury radiating from him was suffocating. He had to remind himself over and over again—

_You promised yourself you’d treat him like a wounded animal. You promised yourself. You promised yourself. You promised yourself._

“You would drag yourself down this much for the world, this world that leaves you with nothing but scars—”

His left wrist was suddenly held in a vice-like grip and pinned against the wall. The faint crescent of a scar or two was visible on the palm as the back of his hand came into harsh contact with cold steel. One of which was the scar he’d pressed a thousand times to make Hallucifer go away.

“—and pain.”

His right wrist was twisted up against the wall, grabbed and pulled too hard for hardly any blood to flow anymore. Sam bit back a gasp of pain as the circulation nearly got cut off. Lucifer’s hands did not slack a bit.

He leaned in, their foreheads almost touching, barely not brushing. Sam looked up to find the burning eyes again.

Too close. They were too close for him to miss the agony flickering behind them.

“Tell me,” said Lucifer softly. His expression was one of torment, torn between loss and rage. The fingers that handcuffed Sam helplessly under his control dug deep into the skin, making his victim’s breath come short and shallow.

He asked something he’d asked his Father many times before.

“What do you see in this broken, black star?”

Hazel eyes were in his. Sam wished he would do anything but fix them onto those fiery pits, because Lucifer was doing that thing again with his eyes; his innards were spilling out onto the warehouse floor and relentlessly vomiting up the hell he had in himself, and Sam’s first instinct was to close his eyes and avert his head because it _hurt_ to look at the cross that wasn’t his to bear.

But he didn’t.

This time, he forced himself to look.

Just for this one moment, he looked.

He swallowed back a knot. He felt sweat break out from his scalp and the back of his neck, long hair falling over his eyes.

He told the truth.

“I see,” he choked out. “I see people. With futures. I see people with friends. I see people with a home, and a family. I see people who would fight with everything they’ve got for them. I—I see my brother. I see Cas. I see my family. And whenever I ask myself why I’m still doing any of this,”

He heard himself lower his voice. It was almost a whisper.

“I see them.”

Lucifer looked intently into Sam’s eyes. They were a little too bright with the wetness reflecting back the florescent lights, gleaming fervently under his. He kept waiting for him to turn them away from him, like he did before.

But the eyes stayed where they were.

Enduring.

Searching.

“Lucifer.”

The way he spoke his name made him take an unnecessary, shuddering breath.

“I see them. Just like all those people I’m trying to protect. And maybe,”

Sam let out the breath he’d been holding in a sharp puff. Now he couldn’t tell where his wounds ended and where the other’s started. He wanted to cool those hellish eyes, if only to be able to look into them without looking into the nightmare of the Cage. He couldn’t imagine how many years of anguish it had taken to build such a mass of wretchedness. The sheer amount of it was enough for illegalization.

Lucifer lowered his eyes first, and bowed his head, as if it’d become too heavy for his neck.

_Maybe._

“Maybe this “broken black star” isn’t much worth living. But trust me, the people who’re living in it are worth saving. And I’m not saying this because I’m a hunter. I’m saying this because I’m one of them. I see them… and that’s why I would do anything to protect them.”

_Even to go so low as this._

Another sharp withdrawal of air.

_Does he understand what I’m saying. Can I get through to him. Do my words mean anything to him._

He felt the hands arresting his against the wall loosen slightly, just enough to let the blood flow a few drops more. He took it as a sign to push a little further. He went on.

“And you see your daughter.”

Lucifer’s head snapped back up. His eyes were no longer fierce with inferno—they had dulled to a greenish hew. But the color was not as clear as it should have been. It was murky and impure, as if the red still lurked beneath the vernal palette. Sam could now see himself reflected in those irises, like the smallest of mirrors.

“That’s why you’re holding on to her so much,” he stated, as gently as he could through the slight shake of his voice. “You don’t want to end the world. You just want to get her back…and you’ll do anything for it. ”

Lucifer let out a laugh of disbelief—disbelief at himself. Noticing how white Sam’s hands were, he loosened his grip. But he didn’t quite let go. Not yet.

“And that’s why,” he heard him say, “you’ll give us your word.”

Sam exhaled shakily, heart racing. Adrenaline and a tangle of unexpected emotions hammered through his body as he cautiously watched for every shift of the angel’s expression.

His breath hitched in surprise when a low, sickened groan escaped from the angel’s lips, and Lucifer buried his head onto his shoulder. He felt his chin press down into the crook of his neck, an unexpected weight. He felt the other’s hair brush against his own wavy locks and his lips touch the skin near his ear.

He shuddered/trembled/shivered.

Caught off-guard, he barely registered the words. They were growled into his ears in what would have been a much too intimate position, had it not been for the callousness and the despair.

Lucifer’s hiss vibrated against his skin.

“I never thought I could like you less. But I was wrong. I never hated you more for knowing me so well.”  

Hearing this, Sam closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the wall. He was beginning to feel mentally drained. He wanted to slow his heartbeat because its rapidity was starting to exhaust him. He could tell—the height of the tension was beginning to break.

Somehow, he managed to regain his focus.

“Just let it go,” he murmured softly. Extricating his wrists from Lucifer’s hands, he lowered his arms to his sides. All the blood rushed down to his fingertips, making them redden and pound.

_Please._

“Just say yes and let it go.”

_For all our sakes._

“You and I, and everyone else has had enough.” 

For a second, Lucifer struggled with himself. But then he realized—he’s always had an internal war going on inside his head. It was just that he’d lost every time. He should’ve learned a long time ago that his ammunition, “pride,” would never be sufficient enough to win.

Especially now, when something so much more than pride was nudging at him.

Another ten seconds of conflict was what pushed him over the edge.

He was tired.

Of himself.

Of this whole thing.

He let it go.

Abruptly pulling away, he gave in.

“Fine.”

The consent echoed through the warehouse, covered by the thick of midnight. Turning away from Sam, Lucifer retraced his steps to the center of the cold floor. For a brief moment Sam remained standing there against the wall, letting his chest and brain steady themselves. Both had jumped too far out of their way tonight. His skin, which had felt stifling on his bones only seconds ago, was already cooling, leaving him in a cold sweat like an ague.

The feeling of Lucifer’s mouth against his neck was still ghosting around him when he pushed himself off upright. He rushed to help his brother up when Dean and Crowley were finally released and fell to the ground.

“That was really uncomfortable,” Dean muttered to him as he dusted his knees. “The view was weird from this side of the room. It wasn’t even funny.”

Sam grunted and let it pass. He knew it wasn’t funny. But there were more pressing matters at hand than Dean’s observations.

It was time to bring Sylvie. Clearing his throat, he called Castiel’s name.

“Cas. You can bring her in.”

In two seconds, they were both at his side. Cas’s hand was resting on Sylvie’s shoulder, steadying her as he always did when they teleported. Sam looked down at her and was about to walk her to the center of the room, when she let out a startled gasp.

Her eyes were wide and fixed upon Lucifer.

As were Lucifer’s on her.

Seeing the expression of alarm on her face, Sam frowned. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Is…is _that_ Lucifer?” she asked back faintly. Sam glanced at the tall figure in the center of the room. He hadn’t noticed anything particularly disturbing about the vessel, and he didn’t spot anything new.

“Yes,” he replied, confused. “Are—are you scared?”

It was Cas who solved the mystery.

“Nephilims can see our true forms.”

Dean’s eyes popped open at least as wide as Sylvie’s. Sam glanced back and forth between the girl and the archangel.

“You…you can _see_ him?” he asked, not a little awed. He’d always wondered what it would be like to really see angels. He remembered Zachariah bragging about how he had six wings and four faces, one of which was a lion. If that was the description of a higher-order halo, what would the actual son of God look like?

Suddenly he was surprised Sylvie hadn’t screamed.

But before he could take her hand, she was already approaching the angel. She walked towards him as if in a trance, mouth slightly parted. But her expression was what caught their attention.

It was one of horror.

But not of the repulsed, disgusted kind—it was the kind one might wear when viewing the mangled corpse of a cub.

Lucifer’s eyes were trained on her, taking her in as she approached him step by step. But he did not speak or move to meet her. He studied her as she studied him. He couldn’t help but notice how she had Kelly Kline’s hair and eyes.

_She’s growing up nicely._

However, he found the curious expression on her face a lot more interesting than her supernatural growth spurt. Maybe it was because he’d seen that kind of emotion on a lot of different people in a lot of different circumstances—but never had it been directed to himself. Ten out of ten, he’d been the cause of it, not the object.

Until now.

Sylvie circled around behind him, and stopped. Her gaze settled on the smooth stretch of navy cloth on his backside. In the thin quiet, they could all hear the air being held in her lungs. She’d never seen anything like this—not even in the lore books where all the night-terrors came true.

Lucifer couldn’t blame her for staring; he knew exactly what she was looking at.

Cosmic flesh, deeply rent and twisted. Scars from ages ago, cracked and dried and speckled with congealed liquid similar to the Milky Way—or pale blood. Jagged bits of broken bones, splintered and now useless. Scorch marks, made by the friction against Earth’s atmosphere and the heat of the Sun as he Fell.

“You weren’t kidding when you said his wings were torn out,” she breathed.

“What?”

It was Sam’s turn to be startled. His gaze flickered up to Lucifer’s face, who cast back a fleeting glance. He hadn’t even known about it. He’d only meant it as a metaphor. He hadn’t actually thought…

Dean turned to Cas and Crowley.

“Did you know?” he asked. Castiel nodded grimly, but Crowley shook his head.

“Demon eyes can’t stand archangels.”

Sam watched intently as Sylvie raised an arm as if to touch something up near Lucifer’s shoulders. But she was too short, and the only thing her hand touched was mid-air. That didn’t seem to bother her.

Lucifer felt the air behind him gently press down on his shoulder blades.

It was only then that he remembered what she could do.

Tentative strokes of dense wind brushed past between the desolate craters where his wings used to be.

He stiffened under the indirect touch.

Sylvie, noticing this, faltered and came to a halt.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered, voice coming out high. She whispered, as if she expected him to whisper back. As if this was a private conversation. As if to say, _it’s okay to tell me if it hurts._

And how could he not tell her, when she was asking like she cared? Like it mattered if he was in pain? He looked at everything but the five creatures standing in the room with him.

He told her the truth.

“Sometimes.”

He felt the feather-light pressure on his back lighten even more. Sylvie’s breathing quickened.

“Does it hurt now?”

Lucifer closed his eyes. He didn’t breathe for fear of rendering it unsteady.

“No.”

Sylvie dropped her hand. She circled the rest of the way to come in front of Lucifer, right under his shadow. She tilted her head as far back as it would go, but still she couldn’t see his face—his real face—clearly enough.

She remembered how Sam always crouched down to match himself to her eye level.

If only her father could do that for her now. Hesitantly, she asked him.

“Could you come down here for a bit?”

Lucifer did. Silently bending his knees till his legs folded in two, he aligned his height with hers. Looking into her eyes, he thought he could see a silvery sea on a misty day. They were two perfect wells, with water dancing at the very bottom.

Fingertips trembling, the child placed a hand on his cheek. She stretched it out, and at first hardly dared to skim the hairs. But then, suddenly struck with surety, she slowly pulled her thumb across his cheekbone.

Because that strange, unsatisfied, exceedingly persistent feeling was gone. As soon as she’d landed in the warehouse it had reached its climax, its excruciating peak that had driven her to be bold and driven her to approach him first.

Now she knew.

She’d been suspecting, but now she knew.

“It was you.”

And Lucifer knew exactly what she was talking about. Through the soft thrumming of her grace, he could feel it—her purity, casting light on his depravity. He felt his own neglected grace stir somewhere deep inside him, like a vine creeping towards a ray of sun. In the Cage, he’d finally come to admit to himself.

That he wanted.

That he hoped.

_That maybe she can save me._

“You were reaching out to me all along.”

She didn’t need him to tell her why. Looking at this wretched ruin of a magnificent house he once had been, it was obvious why.

But she needed to tell him something first.  

“I want to help you,” she blurted out. “I do. But I can’t if you won’t let me. I can’t—I can’t if you don’t stop hurting other people. Sam told me about it. You’re hurt, you’re angry, I get it, but—but you can’t do that anymore.” She pleaded, the words spilling out like she’d been holding them under her tongue for days, for all this time. Her thumb brushed across his cheek again. “I can’t help you if you don’t stop hurting the people I love.”

These were odd things to come out of the mouth of a seven-year-old. The simple vocabulary and the lack of eloquence did nothing to detract from the very maturity of their meaning. And though it was bitter-sweet, the contrast was eerie on her childish body. Hearing her entreaty, not one of the onlookers' hearts didn’t squirm.

_I know you’re wrong. I know you’re bad. But seeing you like this, I can’t bring myself to not give you another chance._

“Lucifer,” her voice cracked.

“I pity you.”

It was not the first time the Devil had ever allowed himself to cry.

But it was the last.

And the single tear that slipped down his face was all the answer she needed.

 

It was a while before anyone could dare to break the bubble of time and space the two shared. When Crowley finally cleared his throat a little louder than usual, it was well past one in the morning.

Sylvie knew it was time to go. But before she left, she had to say goodbye. After nodding to the demon—who saluted her back—and hugging Dean and Cas tightly around the waist, she came to Sam. This time, she didn’t struggle. She let the saltwater flow freely. Burying her face in his chest, just like that awful night when she’d first learned her father’s name, she found comfort in his arms.

“I love you, Sammy.”

Hearing the muffled phrase, Sam’s own eyes began to sting.

“Love you too, kiddo.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember you said he wasn’t always like that? You were right.”

Pulling apart a little, she glanced back at Lucifer, standing quietly where she’d left him. Her eyebrows quirked curiously, as if they’d encountered a sad enigma.  

“He was beautiful, once.”

Sam wondered what she’d seen in the angel’s face. Following her gaze, he felt a strange desire to see what he really looked like beneath the layer of borrowed meat. He was tempted to ask her, but knowing there were some things simply too stupendous for description, he resisted.

He just held her tightly, enveloping the child with a fatherly aura they’d both grown to be fond of.

Before they broke off completely, he didn’t forget to add,

“Sylvie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. We all are.”

Sylvie smiled, and waited for Crowley to make a sarcastic remark. When the demon said nothing, her smile grew a tad wider.

“I think I deserve it,” she decided, unabashed. Dean nodded approvingly.

“You do kiddo,” he assured her. “You do.”

A few more minute passed, and finally, _finally,_ she extracted herself from Sam’s arms. Then, taking a steadying breath, she turned her heels and made her way back to Lucifer. He’d been watching the group saying their last goodbyes, trailing Sylvie’s movements and Sam’s in particular, mild green eyes the color of thawing spring. A dozen different thoughts and sensations flowed through him as he watched, a vague ache and a little bit of jealousy included. Seeing Sam and Sylvie so close, like a normal dad and daughter should be, sent an awkward pang through his chest.

_She is loved—but not by me._

It was then that he realized just how much defeated he was. His daughter was loved by his victims— _the_ victim. Sam Winchester seemed to flip the board and take the ultimate win over him every damn time. It was unpleasantly amazing, how this one single person had thwarted him in every possible way.

He had even…

“You named my daughter?”

The question was addressed to Sam. The younger hunter looked at him, expression innocent and unapologetic. He gave him the simplest answer.

“You weren’t around.”

Lucifer nodded once, not finding it in himself to feel anger. That candle was already burnt out, having exhausted itself to a stub. The only thing he said was,

“Not bad.”

_Sylvie._

She was standing right beside him. She had her face upturned to his.

“Where do we start?” she asked. Lucifer looked down to see her eyes. The mist on the sea had cleared.

He laid a hesitant hand on her shoulder. When she didn’t flinch under the contact, his fingers let go of their tension, and rested more firmly on her frame.

“I have a place in mind,” he murmured back.

Then, they both disappeared.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now our focus will shift from Sylvie's relationship with the Winchesters to Sam's relationship with Lucifer. I bet a lot of you were waiting for that to happen ;)

**How are you doing? I hope you’re okay. We miss you Sylv.**

**Sam**

**Miss you too Sam. I miss all of you. Say hi to D and C and C and R for me. I think I’m going to be okay. Lucifer’s really strange but he didn’t do anything to me. I asked him some questions and he answered all of them. I didn’t like everything he told me, but at least he’s being honest with me. I know it’s weird for me to say this but maybe this is for the best. He needs help Sam. He needs someone else beside himself. If that someone has to be me then oh well. It’s not as terrible as I thought. So far so good.**

**Sylvie**

**Great now I wanna know everything. What did you ask him? What did he tell you?**

**Sam**

**Well…**

**Heaven and Hell and God and everything in between and**

**I asked him about my mother. He said he killed her when I was a baby. If that was it I would’ve sent you an SOS.**

**Sylvie**

**I’m so sorry. What else did he say?**

**Sam**

**Maybe you should hear it from him yourself. Besides it’s been almost two weeks. Can you come and see me? Lucifer knows he has to let us meet any time we want.**

**Sylvie**

**Sure. When should we drop by?**

**Sam**

**Tomorrow if you’re ok with it.**

**Sylvie**

**Come to think of it I don’t even know where you live. Where did he take you??**

**Sam**

**Oh right. Just some normal house on a normal block. Don’t worry I’m not in a volcano or something. Here’s the address.**

  * **\- -  -  -**



      **Sylvie**

 

“Huh,” said Dean, handing the phone back to Sam. “So we’re visiting Cruella De Vill’s mansion.”

For the past week, both Winchesters had kept a weather-eye on the horizon—or rather, a weather-nerve on the skin—for their alarm-scars. For the first 24 hours, Sam hadn’t dared to sleep for the anxiety that wracked his mind. What if the Devil had just pulled a very convincing act and was now making a move on the entire planet? What if he was abusing Sylvie? If she got hurt, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. The blame that would come down on them would be too much. It even got to the point where his mind tricked itself into thinking there was a weird tingle on his arm. Dean had to scold him into coming back to earth once or twice. Castiel stayed with them in the bunker for a while, in case the brothers needed help on a desperate rescue mission. All three were on edge.

But nothing of the kind happened.

Three days passed with no incident. Not an alarm, not a call, not even a text. When they finally agreed they should probably check on her, Sam called her and was immensely relieved to hear her regular little-girl voice. It didn’t sound hoarse or raw or shaky with crying. When she told them she was doing fine, Dean and Cas’s eyes warmed as the weight of worry was lifted from them, and the angel was able to return to Heaven in peace.

Five days after that, Sam and Dean were on their way to Smithville.

“This is like the worst case of separate-parenting ever,” Dean grumbled from behind the wheel. “We actually share the kid with _Lucifer._ ”

Sam hummed his bemusement. He’d been thinking about both of them way too much lately. While the kid had been a constant spray of mist around his head, Lucifer had been a morbid, persistent wart somewhere in the more obscure part of his brain. The way those two had dominated his mind for days was unhealthy, to say the least. He was just happy they weren’t going over because something was terribly wrong. He shook his head.

“S’not the craziest thing we’ve ever done.”

“Comes pretty close.”

 

It took two cassette tapes and two beers for them to pull up the driveway in front of a very average-looking house. Just like Sylvie had said, it was situated on a very average-looking block in an average-looking town. The only thing that distinguished the place from utter, mathematical normality was that the backyard was slightly bigger than the neighbors’.

As soon as Dean killed the engine, the front door flew open to release a canon-ball of wavy hair and silver eyes.

“Sam! Dean!”

Sylvie exclaimed as she threw her arms around about them. The brothers chuckled and patted her head, waists crushed in the mildest of bear-hugs.

“Aww, we missed you too.”

Peeling off her face from Dean’s belly, she looked up at them with a wide grin. Sam could swear she’d grown a whole inch taller than last week. His keen eyes detected nothing else. No signs of languishment or gloom or moodiness. She was still the Sylvie they’d come to love.

“C’mon, let’s go inside.”

Grabbing two fistfuls of their hands, she led them into her new home.

It was a modest two-story habitat with neither basement nor attic. Cleanly and neat, the furniture was mostly wood and leather, from the clock on the wall to the comfortable-looking sofa in front of the inexpensive TV. She led them upstairs to her room.

“Lucifer’s room is at the end of the corridor.”

“Do you lock the door before going to bed?”

“Yeah. Honestly, I wish I wouldn’t. I almost feel guilty for it these days.”

She looked away toward the window.

“He never invades personal space. He never even raises his voice. But having you two as babysitters taught me something about being safe than sorry.”

“Damn right you should be.”

They looked around.

Two framed etchings depicting Tower Bridge and Big Ben on one wall. A desk with a lot of stationery. A bookshelf with only ten books, including the standard dictionary. Upon closer inspection, the collection revealed Adam Smith’s _Wealth of Nations,_ Anne Henrik’s _Greed for Green,_ and Jeneene Berry’s _Gold and Power._ Apart from Charles Dickens’ _Great Expectations,_ the rest were devoted to English and American history. Nerd as he was, Sam wrinkled his nose at Adam Smith. Two common small-sized cactuses on the windowsill. A bed with white pillows and white sheets. White wallpaper with grey patterns.

It didn’t look like a child’s room at all.

“Umm…”

 _“Great Expectations_ isn’t so bad, _”_ said Sylvie quietly. “I think it’s the only novel in the house.”

Sam shook his head in disapproval. He could tell she wanted more entertaining reading material. They spoke at the same time.

“Someone’s gotta take you to the library.”

“It’s not Lucifer’s fault his vessel wasn’t a bookworm.”

The brothers raised their eyebrows. When her words sunk in a bit deeper, their eyebrows rose even further.

“Wawawawawait, you _know_ about vessels?” demanded Dean. Sylvie shrugged.

“We talked a lot about a lot of things. It’s almost all we ever did last week. I asked him why  you guys can’t see what I see—his real looks. He said humans can’t see angels and demons, not really. All they see are their meat-suits. He told me he got his meat-suit by possessing some comma-d patient in a hospital. He got the idea from a demon named Ruby. He said it’s easier if the possession takes place in an empty shell. And…this is the patient’s house. Well, used to be.” 

“And that doesn’t freak you out?” Dean asked, amazed at her nonchalance. The child shrugged.

“It’s not as if he killed someone to take over the place. As he said, the vessel was already empty.”

Sam was just glad she was taking this so well. He nodded absently, his mind wandering back to the times when he used to “associate” with the very demon she’d just named. A twinge of shame pinched a corner of his heart, but not too hard. He already knew he’d redeemed himself of that sin.

“It must get bit boring around here though,” he commented, eyes finding the bookshelf again. “What do you do when you’re not talking or listening?”

“Read. Draw. Watch the TV. Go outside. Eat ice-cream, stuff like that. But mostly I’m just adjusting living with Lucifer. I think he’s trying to adjust, too.”

They learned she and the angel talked for hours on end about everything, every day. From Lucifer’s personal history to her musical preferences and anything in between. Most of the time, the conversation started with a question from Sylvie. Sometimes the conversation flowed on effortlessly, like they’d known each other for a whole year. Sometimes their interactions were rather strained.

When Sam and Dean tried to get her to tell them all she heard, word for word, she staunchly refused and told them to ask their questions themselves.

“I’m not going to be some kind of messenger between you two,” she complained. “Send him a text if you’re so shy.”

“Shy my ass,” Dean snorted, crossing his arms. “No way I’m going up to Mr. D for a chat.”

Rolling her eyes, Sylvie turned to Sam.

“I thought you wanted to be peace-maker?” she remarked. The younger Winchester scratched his neck, but nothing itched.

“Well yeah, but—”

“Then let’s get the work done. You can’t always rely on little me, can you?”

 

In the end, it was Sam who was pushed out of the girl’s room into the corridor. He looked back toward the two, but alas, Dean only gave him the thumbs-up and waved him on. Sighing, he did the only thing he could; he walked down the length of linoleum with a set face, up to the apprehensive “at the end of the corridor.”

When he reached the (firmly closed) door, he raised a hand to knock. But then he paused, and lowered it back to his side. He took a breath or two, and clenched and unclenched his fists. He tried to relax his forehead, which was strained with unconscious tension. Why was he fidgeting? To tell the truth, he was nervous. An uncomfortable mixture of anxiety, curiosity, and a measure of excitement had bubbled up inside him ever since he stepped foot in the house, and it had only increased with every step he took closer to where _he_ was. He vividly remembered the emotional scene they’d gone through a fortnight ago, and like every good mellow-drama, it now brought back with it a certain sense of embarrassment to the involved. He stood there for a while, mind sliding in and out of focus as it slipped between past and present. The night of Lucifer’s utter defeat was something to remember—the intensity had been overwhelming.

He could have stood there, rooted to the spot for a whole half-hour for all he knew, when he was suddenly roused by a sound coming from the opposite side of the door. His body regained its alertness as he leaned forward to listen better. To his surprise, the sound belonged to nothing other than a set of piano keys. Eyes widened, he held his breath, perfectly aware that it wasn’t a CD or an audio tape. Someone—he already knew _who_ —was playing the instrument himself.

_Chopin’s “Prelude Op 28 No 24.”_

He’d listened to it several times in Stanford, only because Jessica loved it so much. It was the only classical music she had genuinely liked. He could still recall her words.

_“It’s energetic and mysterious and darkish at the same time, y’ know?”_

And now, so many, many years later, to have someone of that very description play that very piece, the irony was unbearable. But Sam couldn’t help but notice how well he played, and how well the player suited the song. Dark, energetic, mysterious, undulating, fascinating. As he listened, he lost himself in his own head, and couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the private concert.  

Things went on—or didn’t go on—like that for a while, when, suddenly,

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to eavesdrop?”

With an inward groan, Sam’s shoulders slumped. Reluctantly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open to see Lucifer seated on a stool. His fingers were still traveling rapidly across the keys, never having faltered once. Awkwardly, Sam observed him. Now that he could actually see the player, he soon noticed a contradiction in his movements. Lucifer’s hands stroked their way along with stormy energy, producing a fluent, river-water-rapidness of music. But his face and shoulders stayed almost immobile. They hardly reacted to the song, and remained dispassionate during the whole of the piece. Even when the hands were at their most passionate, the back did not bend and the expression did not alter.

Lucifer was the farthest thing from a true pianist.

“Didn’t know you played,” Sam commented. He didn’t know where else or how else to begin. If he’d come for business, things would have been easier. But since he’d technically come here for what was “small-talk” in comparison, he found himself starting out with the lamest remark he could think of. In his defense, he was genuinely curious. When the hell did the Devil learn to play the _piano?_  

Lucifer didn’t seem to mind.

“Never had the chance till now,” he murmured, not looking up. “Taught myself in two weeks. Not bad for a beginner, eh?”

Sam hummed in what might have been interpreted as a dubious consent, privately wondering  how anyone could teach himself to play like a pro in a fortnight. He was about to clear his throat for a turn in the subject, when Lucifer asked him a question.

“Did you know the piano is the most intricate instrument you humans ever invented?” he asked. Sam shrugged his shoulders a beat later.

“I guess it is.”

“It’s the closest mortals ever got to imitating angel organs. 88 keys, that’s somethin.”

Sam could tell by the condescension in his voice that he wasn’t truly impressed.

“And how many keys do angel organs have?” he asked, a bit amused. The notes fluctuated fancifully.

“Two thousand.”

Although it was for an instant, Lucifer didn’t miss the pop-eyes. Quickly, Sam schooled his expression to one of mild surprise.

“Impressive,” he said, trying not to sound too much so.  

“I used to play when I was upstairs,” Lucifer remarked quietly. With a finishing flourish, he ended the piece with an extra-hard hand. His expression however, remained neutral. “Not for pleasure, of course. We don’t send the Weekly News by talking when we’re out of our meat-suits. We play out the notes and bam, we’re mind-texting with psychic harps. The chords carry faster than sound, you know.”

“Hmm, interesting. Speaking of meat-suits,” grabbed Sam, jumping at the chance to change the subject. “I spoke to Sylvie.”

Carefully, he watched for his reaction. There was an instant effect.

“What about her?” the angel asked softly. He finally turned to look at him, the casual easiness in his voice lessened. But not in a bad way. There was a simple calmness to his light-green eyes that encouraged him to go on.

“She told me she learned about possession. How your kind drops in and out. And she mentioned how you possessed a coma-patient.”

“Just like your old sweetheart,” murmured Lucifer, gently gathering the piano sheets into one thin stack. He tucked them into a file. “She was okay. Very loyal.”

Sam bristled, but decidedly ignored it.

“Is it true? Your vessel’s empty?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

“You could’ve just said it to let her guard down,” Sam accused. “Pretending you didn’t steal another person’s life.”

“I already told her I killed her own mother, Winchester,” Lucifer replied coldly. “There is nothing for me to hide after that _._ ”

It was true. Of all the things he could cover up, why would he choose something so trivial compared to patricide?

“Of course, it’s not as comfortable as being inside _you_ ,” he continued, eyes giving a momentary glint. “You were supposed to be mine but, well. We all know how that ship sunk.”

Thorny suggestion dripped off of his words. Again, Sam didn’t rise to the bait.

“Why are you being so honest all of a sudden?” he asked, annoyed. Lucifer looked him in the eye with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ve always been honest whenever I could, Sam,” he replied calmly. “I was honest to my Father when I told Him I loved Him more than I could ever love one of your kind. I was honest when I told you you would let me in in Detroit. I was honest when I told Sylvie I was a killer. You see Sam,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “I may lure, tempt, or do harm. What I don’t do is needless deception.”

He held his gaze for a moment for emphasis. Sam narrowed his eyes but couldn’t think of anything true enough to make a good argument. As far as he knew, Lucifer was deceptive only when situation called for manipulation. And as far as Sylvie was concerned, no manipulation was in process.

“But weren’t you worried about scaring her off?” he asked, frowning. “She could’ve panicked and called for help. Then we would’ve taken her away.”

“But I promised her not to harm anybody anymore, didn’t I? She believed me, as she still does. And she promised me she would be here for me, didn’t she? I believed her. As I still do.”

Lucifer looked away. His voice was once again low.

“It’s extraordinary, the things you can do with trust,” he murmured almost to himself. “It makes one confess things he could never confess even to himself. I believe that’s what made her stay.”

Sam listened attentively. Was this what Sylvie had meant by the “something else” Lucifer had told her after the account of her mother’s death? He remembered Sylvie’s advice to get the angel to tell the story himself.

“What made her stay?” he asked softly.

For a long time, Lucifer said nothing. There was a distant look about him, as if he was seeing things that were far away from the little room in which he sat. Sam pressed and waited, but still there was no story. After a full ten minutes of this, he sighed and gave up. Instead of waiting standing up, he would wait sitting down on something more hospitable than thin air. He went and draped himself on the nearest chair with resolution.

“Guess I’ll just have to wait till you tell me what you told Sylv.”

Lucifer shot him a side-long glance.

“Why would I want to tell you anything?” he muttered without heat. Sam folded his arms across his chest.

“Because I’m ready to listen.”

“ _Are_ you, now?”

“Yup.”

They locked eyes in what seemed like a staring-match. When Sam neither blinked nor backed down, Lucifer broke away first. Huffing exasperatedly, he ran a hand through his dark brown locks. His fingers tugged at the short roots on the back of his neck. He bit his lip in a very human gesture of distress.

“It was a few days after I brought her here,” he started slowly. Sam straightened up, ears pricked.

“It was late in the evening and we were reading. We do that often, when we run out of things to talk about. Everything was quiet for a while, and then…this dog started barking outside. Some dumb neighbor’s. And the thing wouldn’t stop. It just went on and on and on and drove me up the wall. Without thinking I muttered _damn dog_ under my breath and flicked my wrist. There was a sharp yelp. I think I snapped its neck.”

Sam had to bite back a reproof of disgust. He reminded himself he’d stuck around to listen, not nag.

“I’d grown so used to killing whatever and whenever I liked that I’d forgotten about Sylvie, right there with me. It was only when we heard the owner’s screams that I realized what I’d done in front of her.”

He paused for a moment.

“I bet you’re thinking she cried,” he brooded. “I bet you’re thinking she called me a monster. But no. She just…stared at me, face white as a sheet. I froze under that stare,” he mused. There was something like amazement in his tone. “My hand was still in the air and I couldn’t look away. I watched her warily until she finally said something. She said, ‘bring it back.’”

He chuckled darkly, as if the memory was somehow funny to him.

“When I just stared back at her like a fish, she raised her voice and repeated the same thing. ‘Bring it back. I know you can.’ So I tried. I failed.”

“Why?” Sam blurted out. He didn’t see how this had anything to do with Kelly’s death, but it was still intriguing. Lucifer looked down at his hands, as if to refresh his memory of that particular night.

“The grace of an archangel is very powerful—powerful enough to bring back the dead. I am an archangel, but I’ve also been inside the Cage for so long. My grace was…”

His fingers curled into a fist.

“…greatly affected, to say the least.”

“What happened to it?” Sam queried gently. Grace was a touchy subject among angels. Lucifer shrugged.

“I don’t know, I can still feel it in me. I mean, I use it all the time. But when I first snapped my fingers to bring that dog back to life, I realized I’d only been using half of my powers—the destructive kind. When the dog stayed dead, I learned working miracles takes much more than working chaos. I tried again and failed. I felt…a part of my grace literally squirming inside me, like it was struggling. To be freed. I’d abused it for so long, it was nearly locked away from me.”

He shook his head.

“I told her I couldn’t do it. I told her my powers simply weren’t enough. But she just told me that I had it in me. I wouldn’t have believed her if she hadn’t done it…”

“Done what?” asked Sam, head cocked.

“She healed it. She brought it back to life.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Sam felt his eyes widen.

_Nephilims can do that?_

Lucifer continued.

“We heard the dog whining. She never took her eyes off me, not once. When I demanded how she did it, she told me, _that was you. What I can do, it all comes from you. It’s your grace inside me. If I can do it, so can you._ ”

He paused as Sam digested all this. He couldn’t wrap his head around the extent of Sylvie’s abilities.

Lucifer drew a breath to start again. It shook just a little.

“After that, she started bringing me all sorts of creatures. Wounded street-cats from the parking lot and rats with their ears cut off. Every time I failed to heal something, she would do it for me. We worked on it all day, every day. She was obsessed with it, and I couldn’t help but do what she told me to. This was her helping me. And she helped me, all right. The first thing I ever healed was a moth. Its wings were torn, and I grew them back. It fluttered away as soon as it got better.”

He looked at Sam, cheeks slightly colored and eyes bright.

“I’ve heard Dean Winchester came back from the dead four times. I know you survived the Cage. God put Castiel back together like a doll. But all those grand miracles felt like nothing to that one small moth.”

Sam said nothing.  

“Next was a butterfly. Then the cactus in her room. Then a kitten. Then on and on and on. I lost count.” 

He laughed.

“I actually lost count,” he said, burying his head in his hands. “I actually lost count of all the insignificant little things I saved. It made her happy. It changed the way she looked at me. But Sam,” he said, voice charged. “I thought about it. Think about it. She’s not one of my kind. She’s not one of you, either. She’s like a half-n-half pizza, but which side do you think makes her so—her?” 

Lucifer looked up from this hands and Sam knew they were thinking the same thing.

“Her human side, of course,” said Lucifer, answering his own question. He sounded faintly pained. “She may have all the power in the world that came from her father, but it’s her mother who made her beautiful. You see, I never gave her a heart like that. Kelly Kline—”

The name was uttered with grudging force.

“If it hadn’t been for that one human girl, she wouldn’t be so different from those feathers upstairs. She wouldn’t have wanted to save me.”

He smirked bitterly.

“She would’ve wanted me dead.”     

The next words were almost a hiss.

“And for all that, I killed the one creature that made her better than me. And for that…for the first time in my existence, I am sorry to have shed human blood.”

Sam watched in amazement as Lucifer’s shoulders bent over, head bowed so his expression was hidden.

He was witnessing the humiliation of the Devil.

_He really loves his child._

“You really love her, don’t you?” he whispered, stunned. The question sank deep, and it made Lucifer smile.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” His lips curled. “But what can I say? She ruins me, Sam. She utterly ruins me.”

Sighing heavily, he pulled his fingers from his rumpled hair and tilted his head back, covering his eyes with an arm. His jaws were tense.

“And that’s everything I told her.”

The abruptness told Sam that the conversation was over. But for a long time, he couldn’t move. He mind took its time processing everything, the unbelievable words he’d just heard. After regarding his still figure for a while, he silently stood up to leave. But before he went out the door, he said quietly,

“I’m glad she does. And that’s not _pathetic_.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

 

Alone in the room, Lucifer could hear his footsteps—and his brother’s—grow faint from the door, along the corridor.

 

Before the two left the house, Sam turned to Sylvie.

“Hey, could I borrow a pencil and paper?”

 

Later that evening, Sylvie handed her father a folded note.

“It’s from Sam,” she informed him, throwing it a look of curiosity. With some apprehension, Lucifer opened the piece of paper. The note was short.

 

_Buy her some books, will you? She gets bored._

 

Glancing down at Sylvie, he folded it up again and dropped it into the bin.  

“Can do.”


	10. Chapter 10

During the week, Sam was haunted by the small revelation that had happened just an hour’s drive away from the bunker. He found himself thinking about it, when he was staring off into space or idly playing with his laptop or eating his salad with Dean munching away at burgers next to him. He tried not to, but Lucifer’s story was like a bar of soap—it kept slipping into his head without permission. And that unsettled him. He told himself he was just proud of Sylvie’s role in it. When that didn’t work, he told himself he was touched by Lucifer’s unexpected parental love. But it didn’t matter what he told himself—a lie was a lie. Secretly, he knew why.

He was feeling a morbid fascination with Lucifer’s vulnerability.

Sympathy, pity, uneasiness, caution, curiosity, etc. There were dozens of names he could put to his emotions. Lately, _drawn_ seemed to be the right word. He found himself wishing for another interview with him. Was there anything more to hear? If he could just talk to him like before, maybe he could get another glimpse on the other side.  

He remembered his excited face.

Cheeks slightly colored and eyes bright.

There was something about that sincerity, so different from the usual sarcasm, that was gravitating. Sam gave an inward flinch even as he thought about it.

_My definition of “gravitating” is seriously messed up._

Of course, he knew better than to ramble on about it so obviously. He pretended not to think about it in front of Dean. Dean was as amazed as Sam. He’d listened behind the door all the while, but Lucifer either hadn’t cared or had been too deep in reflection to notice him. Either way, at least _he_ wasn’t neck-deep in thought about it. Sam knew he wouldn’t approve if he found out just what was preoccupying that big head of his lately.

All he could do was pretend to be obsessed with serial killers and wait for another invitation from Sylvie. Taking out vampires and whatnot helped with getting his mind off things.

It wasn’t long till there was another text message to come over. They had a hunting location picked out on Saturday, so they told her they would go on Sunday. 

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Dean shot at him as he squeegled away at Baby with a wrench. “Freakin’ blood-suckers,” he grumbled under his breath. One had climbed onto her beautiful hood and pounded away without mercy. Now he was the one dealing with her broken nose. He attended to her with the utmost care, petting her multiple times to compensate for the heavy blows with his undying love. “There, there,” he reassured her, tightening a loose bolt. “You’ll be good and shiny again in no time.” He didn’t see his brother rolling his eyes behind him.

“Nothing,” Sam shrugged. “Just, uh, wondering if he got those books for Sylv.”

“What books?”

“I left him a note to get some books for her. She can’t read _Great Expectations_ forever.”

Dean gave him a derisive look.

“A note? What are you, ten?”

“It wasn’t as if I could go back upstairs to nag him about it, was it? ” Sam snorted. Now it was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Bibliophile. ”

“Womanizer.”

They bantered back and forth like that for a minute. The easiness of their exchanges was not unpleasant. Of course, they had to finish off with their trademark insults.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

 

Saturday came and went. Sunday arrived in a quiet creep. The Impala pulled over on the driveway with the loud sound of brakes. Three knocks later, a wave of milk-chocolate hair was spilling over their arms—a perfect cascade of brown water. “Don’t ever get a short-cut, okay?” said Sam, earning a glance of disapproval from his brother. Sylvie laughed and twirled a silky lock around her finger.

“Lucifer said the same thing. He said it reminded him of his youngest brother.”

“Gabriel?” They asked at the same time. Sharing a look they thought, ‘Lucifer told her about his _family?_ ’

“Yeah. He used to have hair just like mine, only a lot shorter.”

Sylvie’s smile lessened a little.

“He died in the Apocalypse War, you know?”

They answered a beat too late.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, lips quirking strangely. “Yeah, we know.”

_We also happen to know Lucifer was the one who killed him._

They didn’t tell her, though.

“He told me he liked you guys. Gabriel, I mean.” Sylvie looked up at them searchingly. “Were you guys close?”

“I—I guess?” Dean shrugged. “I mean, he disguised himself as a trickster and made me die a hundred times in a hundred Tuesdays, but later he turned out to be the good guy in the end. He helped us a lot. So yeah, I guess we were close for an angel-human relationship. Not anything like Cass-close, but close.”

That earned him a good stare. Sylvie blinked. 

“What’s that about you dying a hundred times?”   

“Gather ‘round for Uncle Dean’s amazing tales and legends,” Dean smirked, lifting his hands up dramatically. “This is the story of his One Hundred Deaths in the Time Loop.”

She giggled, but Sam had to repress a shudder. It was ironic, how Dean was the one who’d died but was now having the last laugh at the same time. He didn’t want to hear another vivid sketch of what he’d experienced over and over again till he was sick to his bones.

“I’ll pass,” he murmured, moving on to the stairway. He would check on Sylvie’s bookcase to see if it was stocked.

He wondered if Lucifer was home.

When he stepped up to the landing, he held himself still for a second. No sound of the piano noise coming from the far end of the corridor, either. He was tempted to walk right up there and just knock, but decided not to take himself too seriously. Not altering his course, he quietly went into Sylvie’s room.

And found himself looking at full bookshelves, top to bottom. A tiny smile lit up his face.

_I guess he got my note._

He hadn’t _really_ expected him to follow it, though. He eagerly ran his hand along the numerous spines just waiting to be ravaged, examining their titles as he did a thorough investigation. Except for two biographies about Vlad the Impaler and Hitler, and three books on the supernatural (he clicked his tongue in disapproval at the one about Satanism. Must’ve been some attempt at humor on his part), all of them were novels. It covered pretty much everything from _Twilight_ to _Crime and Punishment_ , most of which he’d already read in his teens. With condescending indulgence, he picked up the Satanist book and was soon lost in sniggering over the silly mumbo-jumbo clueless neo-wickans had written as “genuine spells to summon the Highs and the Fallens.” His personal favorite was the different rituals for the summoning of each of the holy archangels of Heaven. The Michael ritual called for the feather of a peacock and lots of pompous worshipful words like, “O, thy greatness knows no bounds.” Beyond amused, he took a peek at the Lucifer ritual. It required the skull of a venomous snake and the seeds of a red apple picked in the light of a December moon. The biblical reference was comically obvious.

_“Drench me in the light of thy darkened halo, and I shall tremble with fearful bliss under thy shadow…”_

“Happily.”

Startled, he whirled around to find Lucifer standing close behind him with crossed arms and a perfectly arched eyebrow. He was in his usual outfit—white tee, black suit pants, dark navy suit jacket—and once again Sam was reminded of just how _tall_ he now was. It felt strange because he’d never been outdone in height before.

“So. You want me to ‘drench you in my light,’ do you?” Lucifer asked in a crooked tone.

“Not really,” he said quickly, embarrassed. Shoving the damn thing back into its slot, he felt a faint blush creep over his cheeks. Lucifer shrugged.

“Lots of kinky people pull that one on me. Not that it ever works.”

That definitely did not help with the blush. Sam shifted uncomfortably.

“And it worked for me just now because..?”

“Because I happened to be on my way downstairs when I caught sight of a giant moose lurking in my daughter’s bedroom.” 

Sam worked to keep a straight face.

“Didn’t you know I—we were coming?”

“How couldn’t I? Sylv couldn’t shut up about it since yesterday,” was the dry reply. Taking a step closer, Lucifer patted the bookcase behind him.

“Satisfied?”  

Sam nodded, corner of his mouth lifting.

“Surprised, actually. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“Well, I couldn’t bear to see her struggling with Adam Smith. I can’t stand him.”

“You tried reading him?”

“I gave up after fifteen minutes. Then I went back to pillaging Sylv’s supply. Good stuff, these.”

His eyes roved appreciatively among the rows of titles.

“Metatron was right about one thing,” he murmured. “Writers are gods in their own little worlds.”

He trailed his finger along the bound spines. Sam followed it with his eyes, wondering if angels had an innate ability of liking reading.

“Any favorites?” he asked, curious. Lucifer shrugged.

 _“Paradise Lost_ seems okay. I’m the hero, you know? Milton took pity on me.”

Sam couldn’t help it. He cracked a smile. Lucifer turned toward the door.

“See you downstairs?”

He was gone before he heard the answer.

 

When Sam went back downstairs, he found his brother, Sylvie, and Lucifer all on the sofa with a movie on. Dean was practically sprawled against the armrest, apparently finding it easy to ignore the angel at the other end of their space. Sylvie seemed perfectly content sandwiched between her two “family” members. She had her head on Dean’s arm while the tips of her feet brushed shyly against her father. Lucifer sat with one leg thrown over the other, arm draped over the back of the sofa. His hand rested close above Sylvie’s head, almost touching. It had a peculiar look of unresolvedness regarding its position. They all made a clashing scene, one which Sam had no clue how he should feel about.

“What are we watching?”

“ _Gladiator_ ,” announced Dean with relish. “Watched it a hundred times and it never gets old.”

“It’d better be worth my three hours,” Sylvie threatened, snuggling deeper into the sofa. Lucifer simply kept his eyes on the screen.

**_“Fratres... three weeks from now I will be harvesting my crops, imagine where you will be and it will be so. Hold the lines, stay with me. If you find yourself alone riding in green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled, for you are in Elysium and you're already dead!!! (the men laugh) Brothers, what we do in life echoes in eternity.”_ **

“The war speeches in heaven weren’t nearly as good as that,” he murmured. Dean muttered something about “inspirationless dicks” under his breath. Lucifer nodded.

“I agree.”

Dean made a face, while Sam settled down on the floor next to him.

 

_“Smile for me now, brother.” (Commodus embraces Maximus and stabs him, laying a kiss on his neck.)_

 

The screen played out the last scene as _Now We are Free_ rang through the room. The brothers wore a look of solemn reverence, but Sylvie was crying. She sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

The end credits rolled.

“I can’t believe they killed the main character,” she said weakly.

“That’s the best thing about this movie,” said Dean. “Max gets his revenge and sees his family again all in one go. Talk about catharsis, huh?”

“I guess it was for the best. What do you think?” she asked, turning to Lucifer.

Lucifer’s eyes were still fixed on the screen, but they were glazed. When he made no answer, she touched his arm.

“Lucifer?”

It was some seconds before he stirred. He shook himself out of it as his eyes slowly regained focus. 

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?” she asked, head cocked. “You look a little dreamy.”

“No… no I’m fine,” he replied. His gaze drifted to her face. “What were you asking?” 

She repeated the question. His response was one of vague shock.

“He died?”

Sylvie sighed.

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?”

He merely hummed. He felt Sam observing him intently.

Suddenly, he stood up.

“Well that was good, although I don’t remember half of it,” he said cheerily. “I have somewhere to go, so…”

He disappeared.

The others blinked at each other.

“What’s up with Lucy?” Dean grunted. Sylvie shook her head.

“He does that sometimes,” she informed them. “He spaces out for a long time and goes off to…wherever it is inside his head. Once, he started staring out the window and didn’t even breathe for two hours. I wonder what’s going on.”

 

After lunch, Dean decided to binge-watch the New X-Men series. A loyal Marvel fan, Sylvie joined him for the ride. Sam tried to watch with them, but his brain could only take in so many re-watches. He chose out after the first film.

It was a warm sunny day, the kind you’d be sorry to miss. Picking out a light-weight mystery novel, he went out to the porch to read. Living in the bunker was nice—it meant safety and protection. But at times the lack of windows could be suffocating, and it wasn’t as if there was a built-in yard in the place. The prospect of a bench with a view of the neighboring houses and streets and the sky couldn’t fail to be appealing.

When he stepped outside, he found someone already on the porch.

“Were you here the whole time?”

“Yes. Does that surprise you?” asked Lucifer. He was sitting on the bench and looking straight ahead, hands together and legs apart.  

“’s been over three hours,” Sam commented lightly.  

“So you came looking for me, how sweet,’ Lucifer drawled back. No smirking this time. The younger Winchester fidgeted with the book, not sure whether to hang about for a while or go back inside that instant. Lucifer was occupying the only seat on the porch, and he didn’t want to sit squished up knee-to-knee with the Devil. But…

He pretended to view the streets for a while. There wasn’t much to see. A little boy playing with a rubber ball two houses down the opposite side of the block was pretty much everything that was moving at the moment. Everyone else was either at home or church or downtown, away from the boredom of the quiet neighborhood. The sound of a dog barking could be heard from next door.

He guessed it was the dog Sylvie had saved.

Lucifer seemed unaffected by its noise.

“Sylvie told us you space out a lot,” Sam began, clearing his throat. “Like now. She wonders what you’re thinking…”

“You mean _you_ are wondering?” 

Lucifer turned his eyes toward him. He met them, caught. The spring-green orbs stared keenly back, hooded by defiant eyelids. They somehow managed to look piercing nonetheless.

“Disguising curiosity isn’t necessary.” He stated. “Answering the question is up to me, whether you ask it directly or not.”

A long silence followed, stretched out interminably with awkwardness. He lowered his eyes as Lucifer continued to look at him thoughtfully, as if testing him under his gaze. He was beginning to regret coming out here at all, when the angel looked down to observe his own hands.

“Michael,” he said at last. Sam looked up.

“It’s Michael.”

“Your brother?”

“Who else?”

He cracked knuckle, and then another. His brows ridged themselves at the unpleasant memories that came flowing back with the name.

“I already told you he lost it in the Cage, but…it’s getting worse. And he’s still down there,” he muttered.  

_“Take me home, Luci. I want to go home.”_

The vivid image of Michael stretching out his thin pale hand toward him, pleading, was the most painful of them all. It broke through his walls every so often, like a drill against the surface of a rock. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing it away. It was hard, like stripping well-pasted wallpaper off the wall.

He pressed his hands together before his face, elbows digging into his kneecaps.

“He begged me to take him home. He was delirious. Of course I couldn’t. And I just left him there the moment I saw a chance of freedom.”

He opened his eyes.

“You think I don’t care but I do,” he said, glaring up as if to dare him to challenge the fact. Sam didn’t. “He’s my brother, and before you two-legs came along and everything went down like a bitch, I loved him for it. I loved all by brethren.”

Ages and ages ago it seemed, and yet, how so like yesterday. Of the four, he was the lone (functional) survivor. It was ironic, seeing how he’d been the first to go to Hell. He still remembered how Michael had taught him to fly when they were young. He’d been afraid, and Michael had to reassure him several times before he could get him to spread his wings.

 _“I’ll catch you if you fall,”_ he’d said. _“You’ve nothing to fear.”_

Lucifer didn’t fall. 

_I never should have._

At times like this, he had to wonder—why Father didn’t take Michael out of the Cage to Heaven the last time He was here.

_He just doesn’t care._

Raphael had entered third into his life. He remembered a humorless, hard-to-please halo of a sibling, not as gentle as Michael nor colorful as Gabriel. He was an obedient son who did everything Daddy wanted him to and respected his older family members. No one spoke of it at the time, but Lucifer could tell he had a mild dislike for the youngest. It was not much of a shocker, considering their polarized personalities. Despite the fact that Raphael’s gravity sometimes got in the way of sociable chit-chat, he had by no means been distant from him. Whenever someone told him to lighten up a little, he’d smile slightly and make no answer.

They, too, were gone.

 

Sam let the silence stretch on for a while.

Until he decided to break it.

“If you loved all of them...why did you kill Gabriel?”

Anger flashed across Lucifer’s face. Under his new vessel’s dark eyebrows, his eyes shone the brighter.

“I didn’t have a choice. It was either him, or me. I gave him a chance to walk away and he didn’t listen.”

“You—”

“You think I wanted that to happen?” He spat all of a sudden, rising from the bench. “You think I rejoiced when I walked out of there alive? When the only reason I was the _only_ one to walk out alive was because he took your side?”

“I think you’re crying over the milk you spilled.” Sam answered quietly. He couldn’t forget the trickster’s porn-disguised death note. Still laughing, still joking after it was all over— after he’d died fighting for them. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to kill one’s own family—one’s own brother. The mere idea kindled a flame in the pit of his stomach.

The skin stretched over Lucifer’s bent knuckles were steadily turning white.

“You’re right about one thing,” he hissed. His face was tinted with the faintest shade of ash.

“I grieved his death. Don’t you dare think I didn’t.”

Sam merely responded by looking searchingly into the angel’s stormy eyes. It was not a frigid look, and not without a degree of pity. But Lucifer could tell the sorrow in them was not for him.

He exhaled angrily.

“What else could I have done?” he demanded, frustrated. “He would’ve killed me!”

“Then you should’ve been—!”

The rest of the words caught between his teeth as Sam stopped himself dead. He didn’t want to know why, but he couldn’t bring himself to say what he rightfully should.

_Tell him._

His lips felt like they might break apart with the unsaid words flush against the tip of his tongue, pressed up full inside his mouth. His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly with the effort. He had a knife under his tongue. All he had to do was use it.

But it was heavy, and the blade wouldn’t open.  

The look on the angel’s face didn’t help. Narrowed eyes. Strangely contracted eyebrows. Slightly parted lips that didn’t know what to do with themselves, just like Sam’s. He seemed almost—

Before Sam could make anything out of his expression, Lucifer turned his head away. When he faced him again, his face was emptied of all emotion.

“What.”

The hunter remained still.

“I should have what.”

He finally blinked. He found his voice.

“Look…”

“No, say it,” pressed Lucifer, voice mockingly encouraging. “You know you’ve every right to say it. C’mon now, don’t be coy.”

Sam thought of the last couple of months. He thought of God’s story. He thought of Sylvie. He thought of what she and the damnation in front of him were building together. He thought of the abandoned warehouse. He thought of the sheer, wretched pain that was this creature’s cross to bear.

He set his jaws.

And said nothing.

Lucifer didn’t show it, but that silence was more provoking than anything he could have heard. His eyes nearly glowed red.

_Say it. Get pissed. It’d be so much easier for both of us._

But not a word.

It was infuriating, and he wasn’t going to put up with it. He deliberately finished the sentence for him.

“I should’ve been killed?”

There was no denial. Sam wished he could show some, but on the other hand, he wanted to nod his head. The decisive part of his brain was split in two in conflict. He couldn’t react because he didn’t know how.

“Well, you definitely would’ve been better off if I had.”

Troubled hazel was the last thing Lucifer saw before he evaporated away. Sam shifted at the thin air that was suddenly there. Frustrated, he clutched a handful of his hair and hung his head.

“Don’t just _leave_ …”

 

A nameless wooded area near a cluster of apartment flats was where his grace took him. He didn’t know where he was. He only knew this place was nowhere near far enough from the burning shame broiling in the pit of his stomach. If only he could vomit it out, he would. But “guilt” was a sensation he’d never known very well. It was yet another one of his illegitimate children—one he couldn’t claw out of a womb. He’d felt almost nothing of it until now, but…Sam’s direct confrontation had pulled it back onto the surface with a roar. Now it sat there, simmering. Just waiting to be touched.

Lucifer hated it with all his heart.

But he hated the fact that he’d actually hoped for forgiveness even more. He’d never breathed the word, not even to himself, but the growing disappointment inside him was proof of the ridiculous fantasy.

_I don’t want it. I don’t need it. Not from him. Not from anyone._

At the same time, another part of him scolded,

_You ungrateful son of a bitch._

Sam could have easily exterminated his child. He’d had her in his hands, and especially with the persuasion of Castiel, he could have just…

 _But he didn’t. He fucking_ raised _her._

He’d been more of a father to her than he himself could ever be.

Lucifer felt slightly sick.

_And now you’re here bitching about what he’s entitled to say._

The memory of his last glimpse at Sam’s eyes flashed across his mind. But it wasn’t the peculiar hazel color that he remembered—it was the sadness pooled in them. Moistureless and startling. He’d seen it a few times before, but this time it was unexpected. Disturbing.

He let his knees sink into the grass as he sat down to think. He opted out going back to the house. The Winchesters would surely be there, and he didn’t want to face the terribly taught string of awkwardness between him and the boy anytime soon. But he knew he had to do something about it. He couldn’t avoid him forever. But more than that, he needed to do something about the uncomfortable lump sitting there inside his chest. What was there to do? Go up to him and what, say sorry for everything he’d done? He gave an inward gag at the idea. It was so…cringy. Besides, it would sound like an empty lie, even to his own ears. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to actually mean the apology, anyway.

A dried-up patch of daisies caught his eyes. Absent mindedly, he pressed his index and middle finger to the soil and had healing energy traveling up their roots, past their stems and into their withered petals. Instantly, they grew white and fresh again. It had become a sort of habit of his lately, thanks to Sylvie.

He stopped, and looked down at his hands for a moment. Long minutes later, he came up with an idea.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost out of ready-written chapters, now. The chapters will take a little longer to upload from now on. My apologies. But I can tell you, patience will be rewarded ;) And don't worry, I won't quit writing in the middle of things. Thank you y'all subscribers who are reading this story!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm guessing you're in for a surprise.

Time is a very subjective thing. If you’re waiting for Christmas to come around for instance, time will seem to be in the footsteps of a snail. But if you’re dreading an upcoming exam, it’ll suddenly be on wings. After their Sunday at Sylvie’s, Sam couldn’t decide which lane he was in. He needed to talk to Lucifer, he knew that. What he didn’t know was if he was anticipating it or dreading it.

Either way, he wasn’t planning on telling Dean about it. Somehow, what was going on between him and the angel seemed like a matter of privacy.

While it might be interesting to watch a sitcom of nothing but Sam constantly planning on what to say to Lucifer on their next visit, we do have the convenience of the fast-forward button to skip to ten days later.

 

[Ten Days Later]

Both had no idea that the other was planning on the exact same thing—resolving their latest argument. And both had no clear idea of how to broach the subject first. It wasn’t until the Impala nudged into the familiar driveway that Sam decided to go straight to Lucifer first thing he got out.

“Hey Sylv,” he greeted her distractedly as he ruffled her hair. “Um, I need talk to Lucifer. Is he here?”

He did his best to ignore the look Dean shot him.

“No actually, he’s out,” Sylvie replied, untangling herself from their hug. “It’s nearly been two hours, so he’ll be back soon.”

Relieved and a little nervous at the same time, Sam nodded. He avoided eye contact with his brother, in case he was questioned. In the meantime, they would all watch the new Disney film, _Moana._ Dean wasn’t too happy about it, but even he had to admit, the CG of the sea was beautiful. The DVD player was attached to a smaller TV in one of the other rooms, and that was where Lucifer found the three of them thirty minutes later.

Sam was the first to notice him, leaning against the doorframe and arms crossed. When their eyes met, what little anxiousness he’d lost during the animation was fully revived. Neither addressed each other. After exchanging an easy smile with Sylvie, he turned and left for the living room. But not before giving Sam a lingering look—which he noticed. He stared at the TV screen with his hands on his knees for a minute longer before he realized he couldn’t deal with the suspense any longer. He needed to get this over and done with. Without a word, he stood up and quietly slipped out of the room after Lucifer, closing the door behind him.

When he stepped into the living room, the angel was standing by the large window overlooking the backyard. His back was towards him. They could see themselves faintly reflected on the glass panes. Sam’s red-and-black checkered flannel and Lucifer’s dark navy suit were two uneven blotches on them.

It took Sam some seconds before he could walk closer to him. He approached the window until they were almost side by side. For a moment they remained silent, because it was so much easier to watch the weeds grow than to open their mouths.

Not taking his eyes off from the wall of the neighbor’s house, Sam took a deep breath.

“I have something to tell you.”

Lucifer simply nodded once.

“Makes the two of us.”

He stopped there, and Sam took it as a sign for him to go first. Going through the words he’d prepared beforehand in his mind, he slowly let them trickle out.

“Look, about last time,” he began. “I—I can’t say you were wrong when you finished my sentence for me. My life—this world—would have been safer if you hadn’t survived. I will never forget—and I don’t think I can ever forgive—what you did to us. To me.”

Again, Lucifer gave a small nod, staring ahead. Sam bit his lips.

“But that wasn’t fair. You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. That wasn’t what I was trying to say. I stopped myself, remember?”

He shifted so he could look at him, only to find green eyes glancing back at him. His thoughts nearly scattered, but he pressed on.

“Years ago, definitely. But seeing you now…I don’t want you dead. I want you changed. But I know better than to expect you to. Because you probably won’t. Never as much as I want, right?”

Another breath. Speaking was harder when he had a face to stare into. He forced himself not to look away, though.  

“But you _are_ changing a little, just a little. And I think… I think I can learn to be satisfied with that.”

Lucifer lowered his gaze. He still couldn’t understand.

_How he knows me so well._

“No one can change that much,” he agreed. “Especially me. I know it, so I know I can’t give you what you want. But,” he added, raising his eyes again to his face. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I can give you something else.”

Sam couldn’t be sure if that was a good thing.

“What?” he asked cautiously. Lucifer explained.

“When Dad first made human souls, he knew they weren’t perfect. They weren’t invincible. But no flesh can be strong enough to be a good armor. So he charged angels to watch over and protect them. But he gave us archangels a slightly different job—to _repair_ _damaged souls_.”

The emphasis was heavy. Sam felt a slight pang go through him.

“Have you ever..?” he trailed. Lucifer knew what he was asking.

“Just once, before I Fell,” he replied. “I didn’t like it, to say the least. A damaged soul isn’t a beauty. That, and my dislike for humans didn’t make a pretty experience for me. But the important thing is, it worked. I touched it…”

Their eyes locked.

“…and it was healed.” 

Sam felt something inside of him pick up. He guessed where this was going.

“Can you still do that?” he whispered, ready to disbelieve.

“It’s been a long time. And my healing powers were asleep for these past centuries,” said Lucifer. “But I got them back recently. And I had a lot of practice. I say there’s a possibility.”

A small pause. And then,

“Sam. I’d like to heal your soul.”

For the longest of moments, Sam couldn’t think of an appropriate response. The pause stretched on as his mind whirred to keep up.

He had to ask.

“Why would you do that for me?”

It was what Lucifer had anticipated. Taking a step forward, he shifted a little closer and leaned down until his lips were beside Sam’s ear. He spoke into it in a low voice, as if intimating a little secret.

“Because,” he murmured softly, “you made me feel sick of myself.” 

Brunette locks brushed his cheek as he withdrew.

Sam stared at him, but didn’t ask for details. His cool breath ghosted a trail against his neck before dissolving into nothing. His skin tingled at its caress, but something else inside of him tingled more at the vulnerability of the confession. He let himself linger on them both.

There was a long pause before he could think of a reply.

And all the while Lucifer waited, looking at him.

“I… guess it’s gonna hurt, huh?” he said finally. The angel cocked his head. He could hear the nervousness in Sam’s voice.

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.”

The ambiguous answer did nothing to ease Sam’s mind, but he knew it would be cruel to back out now. He knew—this was the angel’s way of making up for their argument.

_Quite the way._

“Have a seat.”

He did, one knee on the seat of the sofa and one foot firmly planted on the floor, ready to jump up the moment things went sideways. He considered putting both feet on the ground, but considering that his body still had to be facing Lucifer, he judged that pose would be unnecessarily uncomfortable. He wanted to avoid all possible discomfort if he was going to endure the excruciating pain to come. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He swallowed. He couldn’t for the life of him come up with a good way to stop himself from screaming.

Sitting down right in front of him, Lucifer placed a hand on his chest. His hand was surprisingly gentle. The angel felt Sam’s heartbeat pick up under his palm.

“Scared?”

“No.”

Their minds both flashed back to that time when Lucifer touched his soul while wearing Cas-suit. As if provoked by the memory, Sam’s eyes slightly hardened.

“No.”

“Good. Brace yourself, now.”

That was all the warning he got before he was penetrated. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his lips to block the inevitable cry of agony. He could feel the angel’s fist driving into his flesh and through his bones, deep into the very center of his being. With a grunt, he grabbed onto something to stop himself from being pushed onto his back. The white-hot, searing sensation was terribly familiar, and it took him everything not to fall into panic. The sensation spread and spread and spread throughout his whole body until he could no longer feel its epicenter, his senses were too lost. Repressed struggling noises escaped the back of his throat because, to put it simply, it _hurt._ Some things weren’t meant to be used to.

So imagine his alarm when it started clearing away after mere seconds. The intensity of it all did not cut an inch of slack, but he no longer felt as if might burst into hell-fire. Slowly but surely, the wide-spread agony seeped into his bones and out of his nerve system. And just as slowly and just and surely, it was replaced by something else.

Lucifer watched with keen eyes as Sam’s breathing started to slow. The erratic rise and fall of his pulse was brought down with it, and his face uncrumpled along with his heart.

His fingertips were on his soul now. Carefully, they dug into it—but without venom.

Gasping, Sam tilted his head back at the surge of angelic energy that bit into his core. It pumped into him like morphine, only medical drugs couldn’t compare. It awakened instead of numbed; filled instead of drained; cleansed instead of muddled, and it felt _wonderful._ It felt like clouds melting away before a ray of moonlight to reveal stars—clouds he didn’t even know had existed. And underneath was himself, a black night speckled with Rigel and Big Dipper and Sirius and hundreds of other things he’d lost in his life. His old wounds tore and bled afresh, and in the place of their blood, peace filled instead. There was no ache this time. Only a sense of pure, spiritual bliss so intense it threatened to tip him into _nirvana_.

Lucifer was feeding him the sky. He was drinking the sea and breathing wind and they weren’t like anything he’d ever felt before.

Sam trembled, and a quiet moan slipped out. He’d barely dealt with the painful part. Now he was barely handling this one. Either way, it was too much to bear. The angel watched as his jaws went slack and his lips parted, red from biting. Tears clung to his eyelashes. Cheeks flushed, throat exposed and sweat beaded on the nape of his neck, he looked…sensual.

“Getting a little vocal there, Sam,” he murmured. Sam didn’t hear him. With one last powerful surge, Lucifer finished and drew out. Sam let out another moan, this time a little louder. He felt the loss and the wholesomeness at the same time as the dizzying high hit its peak and his chest closed behind his fist again.

He didn’t open his eyes until he’d caught up with the business of steady breathing. Long minutes passed before the rush could calm. When reality finally settled in, he noticed his hand was gripping something very tightly. Looking down, he realized he’d been holding Lucifer’s arm all along.

Embarrassment colored his cheeks even further as he let go.

“That was…” Sam cleared his throat. His voice was faint. A residue of energy still hummed within him. Lucifer took back his hand and glanced at it. The place where Sam’s fingers had been was marked red.

“It’s quite alright,” he murmured reassuringly.

“What’s going on?”

Startled, Sam looked up to see Dean standing across the living room, mistrust written all over his face.

“Wha—you’re crying?”

_Shit._

Quickly, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and tried to pretend he wasn’t doing it.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” he muttered, which Dean ignored. He turned on Lucifer.

“What did you do to him?” he demanded angrily. The angel looked at him with ease.

“Some good.”

“The hell you did. Back off a little, will you?”

It was only then that Sam took note of their knees touching.

Suddenly, he felt very tired.

“Dean—”

He began as he stood up. Next thing he knew, he was being tugged back by the hem his shirt before he could fall flat onto his face. He wobbled and fell back onto the sofa with a soft thud.

“You should rest, you know? Get some Zs,” observed Lucifer. Sam shook his head, but he already felt himself slipping into a pleasant state of sleepiness. Must be some sort of side effect.

“Uh…” he drifted. He heard him say something about his last patient being knocked out cold for hours. He tried to get up again but his arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate with his brain. The only reason he got off his ass was because Lucifer allowed him to use his shoulder for support. Sam leaned on him heavily before he was passed onto his brother.

“Get him into the spare bedroom. It’s somewhere on this floor. He’ll explain later.”

But before Sam completely left his arms, he whispered something to him. His voice was too low and his words were too private for anyone else’s ears. Then again, anyone else wouldn’t have understood what they meant. Through his drowsiness, Sam heard him say—

“You destroy me, Sam. You utterly destroy me.”

Then he was gone.

_Because I saw for myself what I’ve marred._

_And what I’ve marred was beautiful._


	12. Chapter 12

Sam woke up under an unfamiliar sheet, his head on an unfamiliar pillow. His whole body felt unusually warm and soft and well-rested, like well-beaten meat plunged in warm water.

_What kind of comparison is that._

The figure sitting by the bedside was familiar though.

“How’re you feeling.”

Slowly, he sat up. His hair fell into his eyes. Some weird sixth sense in him told him it’d been a long time since he’d closed his eyes. For a second, he couldn’t remember what had made him fall asleep in the first place.

“Sammy?”

Then he remembered. This was the vestige of the impact. Without thinking, he pressed a hand where Lucifer’s fist had been. The hum of foreign energy was gone. His heart beat under his palm the same as ever.

But he could feel a difference. It was small and very subtle, but it was there.

He felt like a New Yorker on his first time on the country side. You never know how quiet and peaceful the night can be until you actually get out there. Your ears open to the sound—of silence. He realized just how much he’d been normalizing the bruises inside of him. Only when the pollution was gone did he notice its past presence.

He spent some time explaining this to himself. But all he could get out of his mouth for Dean was,

“I feel normal.” 

Dean gave him a strange look.

“Normal?” he echoed.

“I know. But I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Well, is it a good thing?”

“Yes.”

The firm certainty in Sam’s voice seemed to placate him a little. But he still had no idea what had happened. He didn’t know why Sam had been holding Lucifer’s hand and he didn’t know why he’d been crying and he didn’t know why they weren’t confronting the Devil for all of it. The image of Sam, worked up and panting at the end of the Devil’s arm was not pleasant. Nor was it easy to forget. Sylvie had fallen asleep while watching the movie, and Dean had turned it off the moment her head drooped onto her chest. After gently pushing her down to a more comfortable position, he’d went out to see what Sam and Lucifer were doing. If his brother thought he’d missed their whole nonverbal exchange, he was dead wrong. And what did he find?

“Sam. He said he did you some good.” He shook his head. “I don’t know that means.”

Sam sighed. Looked like he had some ‘splainin to do. He leaned his head back on the headboard.

“Last time we were here, we got into an argument. We were talking about his brothers and when it came to Gabriel, the conversation got…heated.”

“Okay?”

He told him everything, from their squabble to that day’s angelic therapy. He related in detail what was said and exchanged, but avoided describing subjective emotions and weirdly intimate moments as much as possible. Lucifer’s parting words revolved in the back of his mind.

_You destroy me, Sam. You utterly destroy me._

But he didn’t tell Dean about that. He left it there, untouched and locked inside.

“…so basically, he was telling you the truth,” he concluded. Dean huffed.

“I guess. Son of a bitch owed you.”

Sam smiled a little.

“Yeah. Speaking of which,” he added, “what time is it?”

Dean glanced down at his watch.

“Just past ten.”

Sam frowned. That didn’t sound right.

“We arrived here at lunchtime. How—?”

“Rise and shine Sammy, it’s evenin.’ You slept for nine hours.”

He blinked.

_Nine? When’s the last time I slept for more than 6 hours??_

Dean nodded at the look of astonishment on his face. 

“Yup. I thought of waking you up, but you were too far in la-la land. I never saw you sleep so deep since you entered elementary school.”

“I bet it was some side effect.”

“Probably.”

Then he thought of something.

“Hey, what did you tell Sylvie? She must’ve noticed I was hogging the spare bed.”

“I told her you took some pills for cold and it made you real sleepy. Satisfied?” 

Sam nodded. But then, Dean made a face.

“And I’m gonna keep her thinking that way. No need to add more drama to her life. Kid’s got enough without.”

“Where’s she now?” asked Sam.

_Where’s Lucifer?_

“Upstairs, with her dad. I think he’s giving her piano lessons.”

The derisive expression on his face made it clear he wasn’t very into the idea of Lucifer teaching anyone anything. Or maybe he thought it was comical. Either way, Sam was going to find them. He slid out from under the sheet.

“You go ahead,” said Dean, kicking off his boots and putting his feet on the mattress. “Found a new game while waiting for you to come ‘round.”

Even as he went out of the room, Sam didn’t forget to nag, 

“Just don’t get addicted to it like last time.”

“Sure thing, mom.”

 

As soon as he climbed upstairs onto the landing, he could hear the soft tune of piano keys. It wasn’t as complex or graceful as the last time he heard it. He guessed it was Sylvie’s. Just like last time, he hesitated just outside the door. Should he go in and interrupt them? It wasn’t as if they were discussing some private, parent-to-child stuff, right? Besides, he and Dean had been like fathers to her, too. But more than all these, he was nervous about seeing Lucifer again. His words and actions confused him lately. They drew him. Sam shook his head.

_You think too much about everything. Even about him._

He quickly shoved that thought to the back of his brain, and knocked.

“Can I come in?”

The door swung open two seconds later.

“Finally! You woke up. Dean said you had a headache.”

“Feeling a bit better?” Lucifer asked. He was sitting with his arms crossed next to the piano. Sam could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t talking about the headache. He met his eyes and held them.

“A lot better, actually.”

Their gaze lingered on each other for a while. One of them might have actually said something, or both. But thankfully—or unfortunately—Sylvie went up to Sam and pulled him into the room and began talking excitedly.

“I’m learning how to play the piano. Lucifer’s the best at it, and he’s teaching me, you know?”

“Yeah, Dean told me about it,” Sam replied distractedly, lowering his eyes to her at last.

“I’ve been practicing all day and all week,” she went on, oblivious to the peculiar air between the two adults. _“Chopstick March_ isn’t much, but I really wanted to show you, so… _”_

She fumbled with her hands and looked up at him from under her lashes, and Sam realized—she was shy. Chuck help the blind if anyone didn’t find this adorable. Smiling, he gently nudged her towards the piano.

“C’mon, put on the show for me. I’d love to hear you play.”

Dutifully, she sat down and began to play. As her slender fingers danced on the keys, Sam couldn’t keep himself from sneaking a glance or two at her father. Lucifer on the other hand, never averted his eyes from his daughter. A mildly mesmerized look drew over his face, as if he still couldn’t quite believe a creature like her could be his. She’d entered his world of bitterness like a drop of spring rain. Finally—finally—he’d found someone else to be proud of other than himself. She put him to shame and raised him up again every day. 

All this showed in his expression. Although Sylvie didn’t see, Sam did, and he realized just how nakedly exposed Lucifer was around her.

The piece came to an end without a single mistake.

“That was perfect.”

They praised at the same time, Sam enthusiastically and Lucifer quietly. Hopping off the stool, Sylvie beamed.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling modestly. “But now it’s your turn.”

Lucifer hummed and looked away. She sighed.

“You promised.”

“Yes, well, only because you wouldn’t stop badgering me about it.”

“Sam, Lucifer’s going to play for you, too.”

“I don’t play _for_ anyone, you just made me agree I’d play _in front of_ him,” he grumbled, suddenly very interested in cleaning his spotless nails. Sylvie rolled her eyes.

“Whatever. You’ve got to show someone how good you are, it’ll be a total waste if you don’t. Don’t you want to hear him play, Sam?” she entreated, suddenly turning to Sam for support. “He’s really, _really_ good and I want him to show off. He’s always alone in his room without anybody to listen to him. Isn’t it such a waste?”

“Hmm,” Sam stalled, suddenly faced with puppy-dog eyes. He took another peak at Lucifer, who was looking away and now had his legs crossed as well. His expression was on the verge of a pout. Seeing him like that, grouchy and reluctant, Sam felt an urge to push him.

_My turn._

“Sure,” he replied sweetly, making Sylvie smug with triumph. Turning to Lucifer, he walked over and loomed over him. Lucifer looked up with a frown, which only made the corners of his mouth curve up. Loading his voice with innocence, he asked, “How about I hear you out?”

His eyes must have given away the playfulness, because Lucifer narrowed his.

“You’re just out to annoy me,” he accused. Sam shook his head no.

“Not a bit,” he said teasingly. “C’mon, we’re waiting. Besides,” he added more seriously. “I only got to hear you once, and that was behind the door. Even then you sounded amazing.”

Sam could have sworn the color in Lucifer’s cheeks rose at his praise, just a little. Lucifer cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs.

“Flattering pup,” he muttered under his breath. But Sam could tell he didn’t mean it all that much. Lucifer sighed. “If I must, then I must. But only because _she_ begged me to.”

“Yes sir,” Sam grinned. Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

_What got him so up and happy?_

Taking Sylvie’s place in front of the piano, he cracked all ten of his knuckles, cracked his neck both ways, set a foot on the pedal, and began to touch the keys.

Softly.

Instead of the fantastic and energetic performance Sam had expected, what he heard was deep and calm, made of some melancholic substance that made the whole room hush itself. He felt his heartbeat slow down in time to the tune of the music. Although the piece was nothing too sophisticated compared to what he had played last time, its very simplicity allowed a sense of pure, unclouded bitter-sweetness to settle on his shoulders and drift unbothered into his ears.

It was beautiful, but it sounded sad. 

But then he realized it was more than just the choice of song. It was the player. As the music progressed, it became clearer and clearer something in Lucifer had changed. Sam could tell just from his movements. Unlike the mechanic perfection devoid of any temperature from two weeks ago, this one was filled. His shoulders shifted naturally with his arms and hands in time with the rhythm. And though his eyes were cast down on the keys, Sam thought he could sense a quiet emotion hovering in them.

Memories from the past began to stir.

He was ten, and the kids were mean…

When he’d played the last key, Lucifer looked up. He caught Sam’s observant stare. 

“Well?” he demanded. “Good enough for you?”

“What?” said Sam, rousing himself from his short reverie. Lucifer raised an eyebrow. Sam quickly pulled on a smile like it was a beanie.

“Oh, it was good. Much, much better than before, actually. Who knew _Moonlight Sonata_ worked for you?”  

“Hmm.” 

The praise was genuine. But his voice sounded vague, and no way Lucifer didn’t notice that. He narrowed his eyes, curious.

“Did it hypnotize you or something?”

Sam shook his head no, dropping his eyes to contemplate the smooth black surface of the top of the piano. Wow, look at this perfectly sleek chunk of painted wood.

“I…it just reminded me of someone.”  

Lucifer waited. When Sam said nothing more, Sylvie chimed in.

“Who’s that?” she asked. Sam shrugged, not looking at either of them.

“Just my third-grade music teacher. Ms. Keelo.”

“What, you had a crush on her?” Lucifer asked snidely. Sam shot him a look.

 _“No._ I did like her, though. She’s one of the few teachers I really respected back then. _”_

_One of the few who truly wanted to help._

“What was she like?” Sylvie wanted to know. Sam drew an image of the young woman in his head, an image he’d forgotten to look at for a long, long time.

“Kind to everyone for starters,” he recollected. “She was kindest to the weakest kids. And…I was one of them. I wasn’t always this tall, you know?” he smiled ruefully. “Scrawny and small for my age, always moving around so always the new kid in class, quiet and always getting that perfect grade. I was a boring kid with pretty much no one to talk to.”

Sylvie’s eyes went wide. Sam Winchester? Boring? Small?

“Wasn’t exactly a surprise when I got bullied,” he continued, slowly running a hand across the lid. “First I got used to it, then I got sick of it. A few years later I learned how to fight back, but before then I just ran.”

He could feel Lucifer’s keen eyes boring onto his forehead. He chose not to look up.

“One day I ran into the music room. The one with all the fancy instruments. I knew that if I got caught and got a beating from then, Dean would know and storm them till he got into trouble. That happened more times than it was good for us or dad, and I didn’t want history in a timeloop.”

“The door was open, so I darted in without thinking and hid behind a stack of xylophones. The bastards didn’t see me. They just ran right past the room. I didn’t know there was someone else in the room till I stood up again. That’s when I saw her.”

“Ms. Keelo?”

“Yeah.”

_She had flaxen hair always flowing down her shoulders and wore light pink lipstick that matched her cheeks._

“She was sitting in front of a grand piano and looking at me. I think I surprised her, but she quickly recovered and asked my name with a smile.”

_Sam Winchester._

_Who are you running from?_

“I think she always smiled.”

_No one._

_Well…if no one’s chasing you, I’m sure you have time for some music, right?_

“She told me I could sit next to her. I didn’t want to go back outside, so I did. After flipping through a few sheets she started playing. I don’t know the title and I can’t exactly remember the tune. All I know is it was beautiful. And quiet.”

_It calmed my heart racing in my chest. The anxious sweat on my palms cooled as I listened._

“After another song or two it was time for me to meet Dean and go back to whatever motel we were staying that week. She must’ve known something about my school life because before I left, she told me I could drop by whenever I wanted. That she’d always be there.”

Sam looked up and met Sylvie’s eyes. They’d grown a somber tone as she listened. Lucifer’s gaze never broke away from him, as if he was seeing an entirely different façade of him for the first time. Hazel met green fleetingly before it lowered itself ruefully.

“A few more visits later she even offered to teach me how to play,” he continued quietly. “And I wanted to learn. But I told her I’d be moving to another town soon, anyway. It wasn’t a lie. Dad packed us up into the Impala just after a few more days and I never saw her again. I do remember what she last said to me, though. ”

_You’re a good kid, Sam. I hope you’re happier in your new school. Wish you luck!_

“She wished me luck,” he chuckled. The laugh fell nearly flat. “It didn’t come my way for a long, long time.”

“But did it come?” asked Sylvie. Sam took a moment to consider. He thought of all the shitty fights with his father and all the nights filled with secret tears with his head on a ratty motel pillow. He thought of the day he ran away to Flagstaff and was dragged back to the car. He thought of the night he went out the door for Stanford with angry liquid in his eyes.

And then…

“One of the luckiest moments of my life,” he said slowly, “was the night when Dean drove up to California where I was staying near Stanford and told me dad’s been on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” 

Sylvie furrowed her brows, confused, but Lucifer knew what he was talking about. Not that he understood, either.

“Wasn’t that the start of all your misfortunes? That night didn’t end too well, if I recall,” he hinted.

Sam looked at him, a hint of defiance in his eyes. 

“I thought so at first. But now I know who I am and where I am right now is all thanks to him. I’ve learned to enjoy this life with my brother, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. If he hadn’t driven up that night…” he trailed off.

 _I might have never seen him again._  

“Even with what all that’s happened to you?” challenged Lucifer. “What you’ve done to others and what others have done to you?”

“Even with all that shit, yes,” replied Sam steadily. “I rather I lived that life with Dean than another as a lawyer with someone else.”

“Well. I guess I should’ve known by now,” said Lucifer dryly. Then he added in an undertone, “this world would’ve been a safer place if you two had loved each other less.”

Sam did not answer him. He knew he was right. Sometimes, when he looked back on all the times he could have chosen the world instead of his brother, he couldn’t help but wonder if what they had was really love. Selfishness, perhaps? Obsession? Codependency?

_They’re all contributing factors.. We know that but we can’t help ourselves._

A loaded pause followed where neither of them broke eye contact. Whether the nature of their gaze was standoffish or deep, Sylvie couldn’t decide. She could tell the grownups were talking about stuff she didn’t have to know, though. Looking back and forth between them, she waited a full third of a minute before pretending to look at the clock and be surprised by how late it was.

“Look at the time, it’s eleven!” she exclaimed, her high voice awkward as it sliced at the string of tension between them. “It’s really dark outside. Sam, are you sure you guys can’t stay the night here?”

That prompted him back to reality.

“Oh, no,” he refused gently. “We’re used to night rides. Besides, it’ll only take an hour to get home. We should...we should probably go.”

_I doubt your father’s gonna like that idea._

His mind was swayed however, when he went back downstairs to find Dean snoring on the bed with his chin on the pillow and phone still in hand. As soon as Sylvie saw him he turned to Sam with barely suppressed smugness.

“See, he’s already sleeping,” she urged, keeping her voice down for Dean’s sake.

It wasn’t as if she was unhappy with living with her father. Life was much more interesting with him in it, and she was glad she’d turned him around from a destructive path. She had so many questions and he had so many answers, they had so much to talk about. They shared music and books and movies and all the possible domestic shit a father-daughter could have. But inside her unspoken mind, she knew he could never be the same to her as Sam and Dean.

“How about a hot shower and bed?” she tried again. Sam looked down and saw her puppy eyes. Then he glanced back at Dean in Neverland. The combination seemed irresistible. Just then, Lucifer spoke up.

“You’re welcome to the spare room if you want,” he said casually. Sam raised an eyebrow.

“You sure?”

Lucifer nodded, turned around, and headed into the living room without another word. That did it. Sam caved.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love how Sammy was this puny little kid in elementary school and now he's this hunky-af-top of the top-hunter in the U.S. Quite the growth story, isn't it?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry! This chapter is way overdue and a bit short. Things have been crazy with last minute end-term scrambles in school and preparation for my competition and other highschool whatnot. 
> 
> Other than that, I've got two things to say. One is that this chapter's gonna be sexy and the other is that next chapter's gonna be my last update. Hope you enjoy! Sam and Lucifer will see y'all at the finish line.

After taking that hot shower Sylvie had invitingly suggested, Sam lay on the floor with a blanket and a pillow next to the bed where Dean was sleeping soundly. ‘All because we’re too big to fit in just one,’ he grumbled inwardly. At first he closed his eyes and tried to do the same, but his hunter system could only take in so much sleep in one day. After tossing and turning and messing up his hair for a dozen minutes, he gave up and rose. Quietly, he tiptoed past the bed and turned the doorknob to head to the living room. Perhaps a mindless string of TV shows or DVDs would chase away his boredom till sunrise—or till he fell asleep again. He expected himself to last about three hours on the sofa before being lulled into a doze.

What he didn’t expect was the find the tall silhouette of a man against one of the windows. He was so tall that Sam wasn’t too alarmed. It was obviously Lucifer. He paused in his tracks and held himself still so as not to be heard. He was in the process of seriously reconsidering his course of action, when he noticed that something wasn’t quite right.

Lucifer had both hands on the window sill, head bowed and back slightly hunched with his body leaning forward, as if he was supporting his weight with his arms. What really caught Sam’s attention however, was the sound of labored breathing. Coming from him. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. It was strange because angels didn’t need oxygen. Sam watched and listened without making a move or a sound, curious. It was only when Lucifer let out a sharp gasp—in pain or something else, he couldn’t yet tell—that he decided to speak up.  

“Lucifer?” he whispered loudly. The angel didn’t respond. He merely quieted down and attempted to remain still. Sam slowly approached him.

“Are you okay?”

When he was just behind him, he reached out and gently touched his shoulder to urge an answer. Quicker than the eye could see, the angel whirled around and slapped it away.

“Don’t touch me!” he hissed. Sam stared at him, eyes wide and the back of his hand stinging with something more than the physical collision. He had to consciously keep himself from soothing it with his other hand. He tried to take in what was happening, and could only read a pained expression scarring the face before him.

Lucifer regretted it as soon as he saw Sam’s hurt eyes.

“It hurts,” he said more softly. He leaned back and gripped the sill again, knuckles nearly white from the force. Sam noticed how he was careful not to let his back touch the glass panes.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, instinctively keeping his voice down. Lucifer took strained breaths.

“My—my wings. I think they’re growing back.”

“What?? Why?”

Lucifer gritted his teeth.

“I don’t know. All I know is—is that it hurts almost as much as losing them.”

Suddenly, something under the back of his shirt began to glow. The light shone through the cloth and bounced off the glass panes behind him, catching Sam’s eye. Lucifer huffed out sharply, as if the pain had intensified.

“Hey,” said Sam awkwardly. “Let me see your back for a sec.”

“What?”

“Your back,” he repeated more firmly. “If something’s wrong, I might be able to help.”

Lucifer closed his eyes, forehead pinched. After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted the offer.

“Be my guest.”

When he made no move to remove his shirt—his hands were still full—Sam stepped a little closer and began undoing the buttons himself.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Sam stilled his breathing.

“They’re not.”

When he’d loosened all the buttons, he gently slid the sleeves over and off his shoulders, down his arms to the brink of his wrists. The lack of any noise and the dim lighting made the sound of cloth skimming on skin strangely loud.

“Lift your hands,” he whispered. Lucifer did, albeit with some difficulty. The shirt fell of onto the floor with a soft rustle.

“Turn around.”

“You—you won’t be able to see them….Alright.”

The pointed silence Sam gave him made him comply. Slowly, he turned.

Sam started at his bare back.

There were veins of the most brilliant shade of blue, pearly white in places and icy. The veins moved and pulsed along underneath the surface of his flesh like living water streams. They spread from the top of the shoulder blades to the lowest point of the backbone, like a large irregular spider web.  

_They’re mesmerizing._

An insane urge to trace every one of those veins with his finger rose in him. He wanted to feel if they were really as cold as they looked. He wanted to see them shining against his human skin, whether they’d burn it or cool it.

But he didn’t dare touch them.

“It’s…glowing.”

“It’s probably my—my grace. I—think it’s setting to work,” Lucifer grunted. His fingers were gripping the edge of the sill so tight, his muscles hurt. His arms shook like a violin string. In that moment, he was sure; this was what a woman would feel if she gave childbirth through her backside. Memories he’d buried beneath his feet started to rise again, oozing into his brain like festering germs.

The sun scorching his celestial body.

His feathers melting and tearing away piece by piece, fast but too slow.

The bones wearing off even as he felt the very marrows turn to dust.

The fear as he Fell endless depths through sky and earth and Hell.

He couldn’t tell if the pain was coming from the reminiscence or the present situation.  

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

He sank down on his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to support himself against the pain. His forehead pressed up to the wall in a desperate attempt to quash the imposters out. He barely heard Sam’s alarmed voice and didn’t notice he’d crouched down beside him until he felt a hand on his.

“Lucifer. _Lucifer._ Please, you have to stand up…Don’t just squat here. I’ll help you to the sofa.”

A soft whimper betrayed him even as he bit his lips to keep it down. His shoulders were beginning to feel heavier and his vessel’s backbones ached as if they were trying to grow a few more. His mind didn’t feel right in his own skull. 

_It hurts._

He didn’t—couldn’t—fight it when Sam hooked his arms around him and gently lifted him to his feet. It took him everything he had just to concentrate on setting his right foot in front of his left and vice versa to the sofa that was too damn far to be just a meter away.

In his mind, his wings were tearing apart all over again.

_They’re tearing. They’re tearing._

“They’re tearing…” he muttered brokenly. He shook his head violently in an attempt to get rid of the flashbacks.

_I’m losing them again._

“No. No, they’re growing,” he heard an uneasy voice say next to him. It took him a second to remember that it was Sam. Sam sat him on the sofa but didn’t let go of his hand.

“You said it yourself, they’re growing,” he said again, not knowing what else to say. The angel leaned forward, bowing down underneath the weight of excruciation.

“If that’s true…” he groaned. “Why does it—hurt so much?”

Sam swallowed. He’d never seen an angel in actual physical pain other than the occasional combat scratches Cas got from fighting demons. Even then, Cas had never so much as grimaced in front of the brothers. He didn’t know what to do. All he could think of was,

“It’s gonna end. It gonna end, and by then you’ll have wings.”

Lucifer’s hand grasped at his tightly as if it was a lifeline. Sam wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing. He struggled with his lungs, trying to press down the noise and steady himself at the same time. Sam was glad he’d remembered to close the guestroom door before stepping out.

“Maybe lying down will help,” he suggested gently. The angelic hand in his did not loosen as Lucifer slowly tipped himself over on the sofa on his side. The infernal heat carved its way through the backside of his body, and every other part of him felt hot and hazy. If he’d been mortal, he would have sweated a bucket-load and still have enough to spare. Or died already. But he was powerful enough to have to endure every minute of this process with a conscious mind, unable to faint or have a blackout.

How many hours did he have to endure? He couldn’t know, and the prospect filled him with dread. He tried to visualize himself with those glorious wings again, tried to see himself like Sam might be imagining him right now.

He’d said he didn’t know why this was happening, but that was almost a lie. He had a good guess of things.

This was a sort of cleansing. Under the influence of his daughter, he’d unearthed the white side of his grace and used it for others’ benefits. Under the influence of her and one other person, his stance against humans had considerably softened. He hadn’t raised a hand against the race or the world for a while, nor had he felt the urge to do so. He would’ve thought this was some last stage of purging his sins designed by his Father, had he not lost all faith in Him.

_It can’t be. It must be my grace healing myself._

Because

_Why would He care after all this time._

The clock ticked off the seconds and the minutes. The hour hand turned once, twice, thrice. Sam kept awake, legs folded beneath him and chin on the edge of the sofa, eyes watchful for any visible change. But by the end of three hours, his eyelids were starting to droop.

A light doze took over him.

_Sam…Sam…_

“Sam.”

It was four in the morning when he was roused to the sound of Lucifer calling his name. He quickly came to and blinked rapidly, instantly remembering where they’d left off. But he found himself having a hard time keeping is eyes open. He had to squint to keep out his pupils from stinging from a sudden light filling the space before him, a light that hadn’t existed when he’d fallen asleep. He forced himself to squint into it for a closer look.

The muscles on his face loosened and made his jaw drop.

“You…”

The angel was sitting up straight, both hands now withdrawn from him and lightly resting on the couch. Just behind his bare shoulders, two great pairs of wings (Sam did not know it, but there was also a third pair folded behind his back to accommodate the sofa) spread outstretched in four directions, inner feathers a shade of lighter gold than the richly colored outer, larger ones. They gleamed with a radiance that started out soft and ended sharp. The sheer gracefulness of their arched shape and the intricacy of the feathers were astounding. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off of them for the longest time.

Then he met his eyes.

They were changed as well.

In the place of the usual blood-moon irises, there were honey trapped in ancient amber instead. They nearly matched his wings, reminding Sam of a lion. He stared into them in awe, wondering if he’d ever find the bottom.

Lucifer let him indulge at the spectacle for some moments. A corner of his mouth lifted.

“How do I look?”

Realizing where his gaze had rested for the last whole minute, he slid his focus back to his wings. The words were out before he could stop and think.

“Like a real angel,” he said softly.

And it was true. If anyone could imagine what a true archangel from the bible—or a fantasy TV show—looked like, they'd imagine something like him; rich, radiant, and unearthly.   
Sam rose to his feet and perched on the sofa next to him to get a better look, focusing on the biggest wing at the top right side. His eyes, already somewhat used to the holy light, traveled across every shining feather, feathers that started out small and soft on the inner parts and ended large and finely shaped on the outer. He even forgot to feel any shame in his fascination as he slowly took in every detail of the sheer gracefulness and intricacy before him. 

_So. this is what Sylvie saw in him. I understand now._

Lucifer observed him as he observed _him_. The angel could feel the hunter's gaze ravishing every inch of his wing, and though he felt somewhat like a huge taxidermied butterfly on display, he couldn't bring himself to wish Sam to stop oggling.   
Because he wanted to show him. 

_This is what I used to be._

But Sam wasn't satisfied with oggling. His hand was itching on his knee to see just once what the feathers would feel like under his palm; between and at the tip of his fingers. Were they really as soft and sharp as they looked? Would they leave gold dust on his hand? Were they warm?   
Tentatively, he lifted a hand.   
"Can I..?" He trailed off, not looking at his face. He could feel Lucifer's eyes on him, watching for his reaction.   
"Go ahead."   
At his permission, Sam cautiously reached out and lightly put his hand on the firm edge of his wing. It felt just like an eagle's wing, solid and strong. But the shimmering feathers were much sleeker than a wild bird's. He ran a finger over the particularly large ones, awed at their luxurious silken texture, and Sam realized Chinese silk and spider webs could mean nothing in Heaven.   
His gentle hand crept down from the pointed tip to the root, where all the joints and large bones were.   
These were covered with a layer of flesh and several more layers of smaller, tight-knitted plumes that reminded Sam of chain mail.   
Just above of the base of the wing where it grew out of his back there was a hollow the shape of a shallow bowl, like birds' wings when they were spread for flight. Sam's hand strayed into it. The feathers there were soft and fluffy like a day-old chick—he liked them. He began to finger the place softly.   
Lucifer shivered.   
Sam immediately stilled himself.   
"Should...should I stop?" he said hesitantly. Lucifer shook his head.

“No, it’s alright.”

But when Sam’s fingers resumed coming through the spot, he shivered again and slightly tilted his head back. Sam could feel the slight tremble beneath his fingertips as he combed through his feathers, golden fluff sliding between his fingers. Pretending not to notice, he dared to rake them a little harder.

Lucifer let out a quiet gasp. He felt goosebumps raise the surface of his skin all over his neck and back, yet he was neither afraid nor cold. His wings shifted under the unfamiliar touch, but didn’t pull away completely.

Angels never touched each other. Not in that way.

But Sam was. And the new sensation compelled him.

“What are you doing?” he whispered. Sam glanced at him, tracing the covered bone structure with his index finger. His voice revealed his uncertainty.

“I don’t know.”

_I don’t know why I’m still touching you._

This thumb drew slow circles into the hollow, making the angel jolt in his seat.

_I think I’m ready to find out._

“Sensitive?” he murmured softly, looking for Lucifer’s reaction. Lucifer’s honeyed eyes colored a shade darker. Noticing how he was being observed, he turned his face away. He felt a strange sort of heat starting to trickle its way down from the base of his wings. It felt a bit familiar, as if he’d felt it once before. He wondered if he should ignore it. He couldn’t think straight. Long, warm fingers slid in and out of focus, distracting him from thinking too long. A quiet moan escaped before he could stop himself when fingernails skimmed across the bony top edge of his wing. He pressed a hand to his mouth in embarrassment. It was a pitiful attempt to keep up an appearance of dignity.

To describe this sensation as “pleasure” was sinful. (Not that he minded too much.) Through the steadily gathering haze, he struggled to find just the right word for it.

_Addictive._

“S—stop it,” he breathed unsteadily.

_Don’t stop._

“Why?” Sam breathed back, mouth a little closer to his wing. The warm puff of air ghosted around his feathers, sensually ruffling up his nerves again. He tried to speak, but just as he was about to make up something reasonable, Sam gently squeezed his weak spot in his hand, causing him to jerk away from thoughts of resistance.

Sam looked at him with something much more than innocent curiosity. There was a glint in his eyes that was mischievous and dangerous at the same time.

“Why should I?” he repeated.

_All this time ever since I met you, even when I was dead and in Hell, I was the one exposed to you. I was the vulnerable one with all my holes exposed. You owned them in every sense of the word. You took every advantage of them you could, and stopped only these past few months. Don’t I deserve a turn?_

“I was vulnerable to you till now,” he stated softly, lips now brushing against the spot he now knew would be maddening. Lucifer made a strange noise in the back of his throat, a fist gripping the edge of his seat. He closed his eyes and didn’t see the small, bitter-sweet smirk on Sam’s face. “I think you deserve to be the same to me.”

_What should I do with you like this?_

He couldn't name the lump making its way up to his tongue like bile. Seeing Lucifer tremble under his touch reminded him of what the angel had done to him in the Cage; how he'd took control of every part of his being, both body and soul; how he’d made his flesh ignite with hellfire every time he wrapped his devilish hands around his waist; how he'd humiliated him with carnal sin and pain. Remembering them, Sam felt an urge for revenge. Hatred for his past memories simmered somewhere in the back of his head.

But did he really want it?

He'd felt it before, but now he knew for sure—he'd exhausted his scars dry of everything; of hatred; of shame; of grief. If he could neither forgive nor forget, he wanted to at least get over that burning hill and leave it to wither behind him. He wanted himself to be whole again, and not just him; this fallen creature from both Heaven and Hell, too. Because he'd seen with his own eyes the fruit of his angelic struggle to find himself again; he could never find in himself cruelty enough to ruin something that pure.

_What should I do with you when you lower your guard like this?_

A warm rush surge past his chest, leaving a quiet thrill behind. Over the faint hum of anger long gone stale, he just wanted to help the angel find his way home.

"Did you mean it?"

He asked suddenly, pausing in his movements. Lucifer opened his eyes just enough to take a peek at him.

“Mean what?”

_You ruin me, Sam. You utterly ruin me._

“When you said that I ruin you.”

Lucifer looked away and closed his eyes again. His head rested on the back of the sofa easily, as if he couldn’t care less if he meant it or not. His tone however, betrayed him.

“Yes, I did.”

The gentle resignation and quiet embarrassment in his voice warmed him, but what he added next truly touched him. Quietly Lucifer added in an undertone,

“I still do.”

Sam held his breath and let the words sink in. And as they sunk in, he felt as if his heart might break.

_You make me want to wrap my arms around you when I should be gloating._

He leaned in closer. 

“Should I tell you a secret?” he murmured softly, a hand still on his wing and mouth next to his ear. Lucifer’s breathing quickened, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He swallowed before letting the words fall out of his mouth in a whisper.

“You ruin me, too.”

Lucifer turned his head to stare at him. The distance between his golden eyes and Sam’s hazel ones were

_So close so close so close so close so close_

too close.

Sam didn’t dare look down at any other part of his face other than the eyes. Honey trapped in amber.

_You really do._

“How do I ruin you?” the angel whispered back at last, gaze searching. Sam felt his cheeks burn with the mere thought of describing his complicated emotions and all the gory details. No. It wouldn’t do.

He shook his head.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Sam—”

A sudden, incoherent yelp from the guestroom startled both of them, causing him to spring up and away from the angel. 

Dean. 

He was there in front of the door in three strides, gun already gripped tightly in hand. He was about to turn the doorknob when it turned on its own to reveal Dean on the opposite side. They started talking all at once.  

"What's going on?"

"Dude, you're not gonna believe this." 

_"What's going on?"_

"Hello, Sam. Hope you remember me?" 

Sam froze at the familiar voice from behind Dean. How could he forget? That light, easy tone. He glanced into the room. Then he looked at his brother again, confusion written all over his face. His brother looked just as clueless as he was. Puzzled and apprehensive at the same time, Dean opted to cross his arms.

“Chuck’s here.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Touched by Heaven. Kudos and Thank Yous to all of my readers who stuck with the story through the end. Hopefully you'll like how I tied things up.

Sam sat on a single couch facing the kitchen, waiting for the psychological harassment of dealing with two different emotions all at once—emotional tension and lightening-strike surprise—to subside completely. His conversion from the former to the latter had been neck-snappingly quick, and now he was dealing with the whiplash. Dean and Sylvie sat on the sofa, but their bodies and heads were all turned towards the kitchen as well. Sylvie, who’d been roused from sleep by the commotion downstairs five in the morning, leaned into Dean and whispered quietly.

“So...if He’s Lucifer’s Father, then I’m…”

“G-O-D God’s granddaughter, yeah.”

“He’s _God?_ ”

“Well, His son is an archangel.”

Sylvie studied her Grandfather from her place, taking in His oh-so-normal human appearance. But as she gazed at Him, she realized His disguise wasn’t perfect. He had a colored aura around Him—seeping through the human flesh, actually. She couldn’t quite describe what the colors were. They seemed out of the usual rainbow range. His aura shimmered and stuttered and changed hue with every shift. The more she observed, the more clear they appeared to her.

“I bet He can’t walk down a street without people staring at Him,” she remarked. Dean shrugged.

“His Chuck-suit’s not _that_ attractive.”

“No, I meant those lights. Colors. Halos. Whatever, those things shining off of Him.”

Dean blinked, stared harder at Him, then quirked an eyebrow.

“Whatever you’re seeing, I don’t think human eyes can see it.”

Sylvie shrugged. She’d gotten over the fact that she was inevitably different from the rest of her family some time ago. Her body was still ten but she was sixteen at heart. Things like this didn’t irk her now.

“Nephilim thing, I guess.”

Dean yawned into his palm, and glanced at his watch.

“They’ve been sitting like that for half an hour now. About time they said _something_ to each other.”

 

 

Yes, it was about time. Because they’d been sitting there on chairs facing each other across the kitchen table in silence ever since Sylvie came down the stairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She doubted either had even noticed her presence. She didn’t mind, since their absorption in their own drama gave her time to do double takes at the changed Lucifer without seeming rude. Where had those _wings_ come from? Dean’s initial reaction hadn’t been much different.

 

The Winchesters shook their heads at the odd pair sitting before them.

“Haven’t we been here before?” Sam commented, not bothering to kill the volume to an inaudible level. Dean stifled a yawn again.

“Yup.”

Lucifer’s glorious wings were still outspread, though its radiance had softened to a more bearable height. His chest was still shamelessly bare, smooth and well-shaped, with his arms crossed over it. (Sam quickly dismissed the idea.) He apparently had no mind to make himself decent in front of their “visitor.” All in all the angel clashed almost comically with the everyday cutlery and culinary stuff in the background. The house was no fit cage for such a bird. His golden eyes glinted straight ahead without seeing the figure sitting right before him.

God.

The jacket-clad deity seemed visibly less self-assured than his son. His vessel had never been tall, but now that Lucifer had changed his meat-suit he looked even shorter than before in comparison. No one vocally acknowledged it—not even the angel himself—but everyone knew Lucifer was immensely satisfied with the change of stature. He was enough to outmatch Sam, but now he simply towered over his own Father. Chuck folded his hands together and rested them neatly on the table between them, deciding he’d been under the silent-treatment long enough.

“It’s been a long time, huh?” He started. His tone was light, but no one failed to notice the faint undercurrent of apologetic nervousness. Lucifer gave no sign he’d heard him other than turning his face away. His gaze landed on Sam. The younger Winchester furrowed his brows and gave him silent eye-signals to turn that head of his right back to his Father and listen to what He had to say. Lucifer narrowed his eyes and kept them trained on him. Dean glanced back and forth between the two. He knew something was going on between them. What he didn’t know was what kind of things.

Sam had to work to keep off the blood from warming his face. Every time he met the angel’s golden eyes, the moment they’d shared not an hour ago kept resurfacing in his mind. The raw vulnerability. The sensitivity. The abruptly stemmed conversation.

_The touching…_

_What would’ve happened if we’d been uninterrupted?_

He frowned himself into shying away from that last one. It wasn’t easy, though. Semi-naked Lucifer staring at him from across the room definitely didn’t help. Purposefully, the angel locked eyes with him, trapping his gaze in sticky amber.

“Sam, you have the most interesting colors in your eyes.”

Both Winchesters froze, Dean in uncertain anger and Sam in alarm and in desperate effort to think up of a response. He felt his cheeks finally give way to an embarrassing shade of pink.

_That devilish sonuvabitch._

And all he could manage under the scrutiny of everyone in the room was—

“That’s not the point here.”

He hoped his expression was as stony as the atmosphere. God frowned in annoyance.

“Son, is this the _time_ …”

“For what?” Lucifer asked, voice instantly cutting. He finally turned his face to look at Him. “A family reunion talk? Unfortunately, I’m quite done with stuff like that, as it obviously has no reliable effect in actual mending.”

Chuck tried again.

“I know you feel I betrayed you last time—“

“I _felt?_ ” Lucifer spat incredulously. The feathers of his wings bristled. He was quickly losing patience. “You _did_ betray me! Those peacemakers made us have a touchy-feely session of talking things out, I got an apology out of you and was stupid enough to think we’d patched everything up between us. But guess what happened next? You rode off into the sunset with Auntie Amara and left me here again. Stranded.”

“I was trying—”

“Oh, you thought now that I’ve been both in Hell and earth for hundreds of years, I actually got used to being homeless and wouldn’t mind staying down here? So considerate, thank you.” 

“If you just listen—”

“Oh right, you have another good excuse for me. Or even better, an apology. Like I care.”

_“Lucifer Morningstar!”_

Chuck finally exploded. All the others except for said Morningstar flinched in their seats. The voice of God when He was pissed was nothing pleasant. Lucifer however, merely shut his mouth kept his defiant poise. Sam kept expecting his eyes to turn deep red again, like they always did when he was in fury. They never did. They turned hard, but never red.

“Son.”

Chuck said more softly. He paused, and closed his eyes. He kneaded his forehead with his gathered thumbs, as if carefully concentrating on his next words. For all his lordly attitude, he knew he had to make them count this time. Really count. He decided to start with a question Lucifer wouldn’t know the answer to. 

“Do you know why you suddenly grew wings?” he asked quietly. Lucifer narrowed his eyes at him, longing to make a snappy reply. He thought about telling him his my-grace-suddenly-went-full-power-and-decided-to-heal-my-body-for-a-Good Boy-present, but then decided to shut it. Suddenly, he could see where this was going.

He remained silent, and merely shook his head once. His Father’s blue eyes pierced into his.

“That was me.”

Lucifer held himself stiller than ever. He’d had suspicions the moment he saw Him in the house, but now that He was telling him in his face for sure…

He wanted to fold his shining, golden wings back out of sight.

_And I thought my grace was powerful enough to pull it off._

After all this time he never learned to get rid of his downfall.

_Pride._

He forced himself to keep his wings high and spread.

“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.

_Why this humiliation. Why this sudden gift._

“I know what you did this past year,” answered Chuck. “I know you slept with a human woman and produced a Nephilim child, a daughter. I know she was of great help to you. I know you are grateful for what she’s done. I know you love her. And…I know how that has changed you.”

Lucifer said nothing. His Father’s ability to See never failed to unnerve. He was careful not to let it show, though. His crossed arms did not loosen. Chuck offered a small smile.

“I know a lot, don’t I?”

“So you gave me back what is rightfully mine as a reward,” Lucifer stated.

“It was not rightfully yours until you made it so,” Chuck gently corrected. “I saw by now, there was hope for you. I thought it was safe to give you a second chance. And I believe you have someone else to thank for other than your daughter. Honestly, I think that person did even more to help than the child. Am I right, Sam?”

Sam managed a jittery smile and ran a hand through his hair. Chuck continued to address him, an amused glint in his eyes.

“All those things you did to stop my teen-surly Son from wrecking himself. Even tonight. Well, early this morning actually, but you know what I mean.”

Lucifer glanced at the Winchester, who was starting to blush again. Yes, he knew exactly what He meant. Lucifer could tell they were thinking back to the same moment. He wondered what might’ve happened, had they not been interrupted. What words might’ve been said.

_You ruin me, too._

_How do I ruin you?_

_I can’t tell you._

He found himself missing his touch on his wings.

Chuck continued, rousing him from his short reverie.

“I’m glad my Son didn’t forget to say thank you. He healed your soul, didn’t he.”

Sam cleared his throat.

“Yeah, he did. I actually feel better after that.”

“I bet you did. And _that_ was the last proof I needed to give him a second chance. He’ll know what to do with his wings.”

He looked at Lucifer expectantly. For a few seconds, the angel didn’t get it. But as realization dawned on him, his eyes widened. For the most part, archangels were powerful enough to transport without wings. The wings were decorative and intimidating at most, not much for practical use, _except when—_

“You mean…”

“Yes,” answered God simply. His expression was back to serious now, but the corners of his mouth were lifting slightly. It might have been an apology, or joy, or hope on his face.

“Son. Let’s go home.”

Lucifer stared into his Father’s eyes unblinkingly. The last three words sounded so surreal. He started to doubt his hearing, even though he knew perfectly well archangel’s wings were good for nothing but for their power to actually _fly_ up to Heaven. He tried out the words inside his head again.

_I can go back to Heaven._

_I can go back home._

His heart began beating a beat faster, forcing him to start breathing again.

“What about Michael?” he asked quietly. He could imagine the state of his brother right now, in the Cage, locked away in the depths of Hellfire with no one to share in his suffering. His mind vividly recalled the damage, the madness.

_Take me home, Lucie. I want to go home._

“He’s already there,” Chuck replied. “I delivered him just before coming here for you.”

“But—but why?” Lucifer asked indignantly. “Why didn’t you go get him sooner? He ended up in the Cage by accident. You should have saved him sooner. Did you see the state he’s in?”

“Yes, I saw,” said Chuck softly, suddenly observant of the wooden surface of the table. “Balancing out things with Amara took a long time. After all, we were trying to find a ground between Nothing and Being. I couldn’t just leave Her without stabilizing things between us first. But don’t worry—” he added, cutting off another one of Lucifer’s protests. “I managed to restore Michael. He’s recovered, more or less.”

‘That excuse is as holey as the sponge on the sink,’ thought Lucifer. But for once he kept his accusations to himself. What mattered was that his brother was up and well now. He hoped the image of Michael’s pale hand stretching out to grab the hem of his shirt—or Heaven’s gates itself—would stop haunting him, now that the nightmare was at its end.

It seemed it was over for him as well.

He stood up and walked to the windows, past the couch and sofa where the audience was listening in with intense focus. He looked out from one of the glass panes, out into the streets where the lampposts and houses looked bluish-grey with the approaching dawn. Not a soul in sight. Not a bark from the neighbor’s dog.

So tiny and calm, this part of the planet. He’d always thought he was sick of this place. Or perhaps he’d only been trying to convince himself.

What he did know for sure was, he did not belong here.

“When do we leave?” he asked quietly, almost to himself. God understood.

“Whenever you want to.”  

Lucifer traced a slow pattern on the glass, his finger leaving a delicate trail of frost in its wake. Today. He would leave today.

“I’d like a moment before we go.”

He felt his Father nodding, as if He’d expected as much. Then, He finally turned His attention to Sylvie. “I should officially meet my granddaughter now.” Sylvie smiled politely and nodded a hello from her seat.

Chuck rose from his chair.

“Whenever you’re ready, Son.”

Then He disappeared, along with everyone else but Sam. Sam blinked in surprise. He turned to the window but found the front yard empty.

“Where did they go?” he asked nervously. The last time everyone had disappeared, Dean had ended up in Purgatory. Not that he suspected Chuck would drag everyone he loved down to some hellhole, but still.

“Chill Sam, they’re in the back yard,” reassured Lucifer, turning from the window to face him. In the next second he was standing right in front of the couch where Sam was. Their legs almost touched. Sam looked up at him to see eyes the color of impossible downcast on his own. Wings fanned out from the angel’s shoulders and back like mountain peaks, bare torso lightly tanned to compliment their golden shade.

Sam wondered if his true form was more beautiful or more terrible than this one.

“Dad knew I wanted a moment _with you_. I’m guessing you know why.”

Sam had to breathe out consciously.

“Yeah, I guess…” he mumbled, looking away. Their unfinished conversation. Lucifer perched on one of the armrests, causing their knees to touch. Sam let it be, trying to keep the warm pressure building on his chest at bay.

“I asked a question earlier,” Lucifer began lightly. He watched as Sam bit at his bottom lip. “Which you never answered. Sam, if I had time, I’d have leisure to have and spare to badger it out of your mouth. I’d have bullied and teased it out of you. Wouldn’t have mattered if it took days or weeks or months.” For some reason, Sam could tell the “bullying” he was talking about wasn’t the fist-fighting kind. His physical proximity was somewhat suggestive of …another sort. Sam mentally shooed away the heat threatening to crawl up the back of his neck. Mercifully, Lucifer carried on without pause. 

“But I’m leaving in just a moment now,” he continued, weighing his tone down. The obvious statement almost sounded like a plea. “In just a moment I’ll be gone for good. I guess it’s a good thing, though. One less monster for you to worry about, right?”

Sam tried to smile at that, but he found himself disagreeing.

“No,” he said quietly. “Just one more angel in Heaven.”

Lucifer’s lips twitched. He went for a joke.

“Can’t tell if you’re complimenting or insulting.”

“You know what I mean.”

Lucifer chuckled. “I do.”

He leaned down closer to him, bringing his surreal eyes before Sam’s. Sam blinked into them for the sake of not appearing too obviously spell-bound. He felt Lucifer’s arm brush the back of his head as the angel gripped the back of the couch with his hand. If he leaned back, his head would rest on it.

He didn’t.

The physical tension between them was almost tangible. Lucifer’s voice was soft and persistent near his ear.

“But back to the point. Answer my question, please, Sammy.”

Sam felt a tingle in a corner of his chest at the time-old nickname. He swallowed.

“I…I hated you for a long time,” he managed. Lucifer nodded once. _Go on._ “I _wanted_ to. But now I just… I got to know some different sides of you and…you’ve done and said things I never thought you could, and, so…” he struggled with the words, so very different from the confidence he’d displayed in the abandoned warehouse. His face started to burn. He dropped his eyes to the floor again and refused to look into his eyes. He knew just fine what he wanted to say. What he didn’t know was how to get rid of this goddamn embarrassment blocking his tongue.

Lucifer waited patiently. His angel senses picked up on the rush of blood in Sam’s veins, his heart beating faster than usual, but most of all his skin heating up… He couldn’t help himself—all this was terribly endearing.

Sam decided: if he couldn’t elegantly cross this bridge with ballerina steps, he would sprint across it in one go.

“You make me want to give you a stupid hug.”

There. Now that it was out of his mouth it sounded even dumber. But there it was. His arms had ached with the secret desire to wrap them around the angel’s shoulders and squeeze them tight for some time now, like he did with Dean whenever they had a miraculous post-disaster reunion. He’d felt more than once it was what Lucifer needed but never got.

The fact he felt “weird” whenever they got close around each other, he decided not to mention. He didn’t have to. The angel already knew. Lucifer laughed softly.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” he murmured, voice low in his throat. Sam lips turned pouty as the urge to melt through the cracks of the floorboards and disappear seized him. He was seriously considering it when he was forced to look up as a finger lifted his chin. Something danced in Lucifer’s smile. Then, letting go of Sam’s face, he spread his arms wide.

“Give me whatever you want.”

Sam’s eyes widened, not only at the invitation but also at the breathtaking sight the angel made. Three pairs of beaming wings and two limbs spread free, with a genuine smile that actually looked like joy, Lucifer was like a star, radiant and dream-like and _real._

He was meant for the sky.

It was long-suppressed impulse more than anything. Raising himself to one knee and standing on one foot, he nearly lunged into Lucifer’s arms and pulled him into an embrace fiercer than he’d dared to imagine. Through his own pressure he felt the angel return the gesture. Strong silky feathers surrounded him as the angel wrapped him around with his wings. What little space they had between them darkened into shadow.

They stayed like that for a moment, neither wanting to let go of the other too soon.

Sam felt the hands on his back start to move up to his shoulders. He unwound his arms as they started to part away. But before he could even disentangle himself completely, he was pulled back by the collar of his shirt. Before his brain registered what was happening, Lucifer’s lips were on his.

Gently.

The angel’s eyes were closed and he had a hand in Sam’s hair, softly giving him what _he_ wanted to give, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to pull away. When the initial shock had ebbed away after a few seconds, he gave in completely. Closing his eyes, he let himself evaporate into the intimacy.

Lucifer’s lips were soft and cool, or was that his cold puff of air mingling with his?

They moved against each other a little, felt each other a little, breathed each other a little. But only ever a little.

This was a kiss from the Devil and the Archangel Morningstar to the human being who had shaped his life into place forever.

When they finally pulled apart, Sam felt dazed with warmth and adrenaline. His eyes gazed into melted gold, asking a question of his own. Lucifer answered him.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

“A—a hug wasn’t enough for you?” asked Sam, trying to tease around a gulp of air. Lucifer’s eyes glinted under the shadow of his wings.

“I wanted more.”

Sam swallowed. Lucifer grinned as he remembered something.

“Maybe…maybe it’s because you’re like the girl who kept turning me down at the prom.”

Sam remembered. At first he tried to look unimpressed, but hell, it was funny in this context. He laughed.

Their bubble of space brightened with the florescent of the living room again as Lucifer uncurled his wings. Taking Sam’s hand, he led him to the back door.

“C’mon, they’re waiting.”

 

 

Sylvie and Chuck had talked.

“So. You are the Nephilim my Son created, the Winchesters reared, and saved everyone from apocalypse number two.”

“I can’t take all the credit sir, Sam and Dean did almost everything.”

“Call me Chuck. And yes, they have the tendency to run into trouble and save the day. But, no one else could’ve done what you did for Lucifer. Thank you.”

“I like him. He’s fascinating. He’s surprisingly like us sometimes. And he knows so much and so little.”

“You’re different from most ten-year-olds, aren’t you?”

“Sam and Dean always tell me I’m old for my age. It’s a Nephilim thing, I guess. But maybe it’s because people underestimate ten-year-olds too much.” A pause. “By the way, why are Nephilims unholy? I touched a bible once and it burned my hand.”

“That’s just something the angels made up when I was gone. I think they put a curse on the first Nephilim that lasted for generations. But you’re not unholy. See? (He pats her back.) I guess they didn’t think humans were worthy enough to intermingle with them. To be honest? Both of them have the equal capacity to be perfect dickheads. They are both disappointments. But then again, I’m not the perfect Father. I was wrong to expect perfection to spring from imperfection. I only learned that very recently.”

“They told me. I’m glad you came back for him, anyway. I guess I’ll never see him again, right?”

“I’m sure he’d like to visit all of you in a while or two.”

“I hope so.  …Can I borrow a pen?”

It was conjured up for her on the spot.

In the meantime, Dean (who’d attempted to sneak up to the front yard window to spy on what the hell his brother was doing with Lucifer, but Chuck had stopped him before he could take more than three steps) called Castiel, who called Crowley, who in turn called Rowena. By the time Sam and Lucifer emerged from the house, everyone was assembled and waiting, the first specks of sunlight creeping across their figures.

“Wow, am I getting a goodbye fan-fare?” Lucifer called, grinning broadly. Crowley opened his mouth to make a retort, but something caught his eyes. He gaped.

“Oh, so you two are holding _hands_ now?” he exclaimed loudly. He looked around to see Chuck with a knowing smile and everyone else with stunned expressions. Their eyes zoned in on the pair of hands, one larger than the other. Sam shyly let go and ran a through his hair.

“Shut up and move on,” he muttered, but Lucifer seemed to enjoy the attention.

“Oh, you think we only held hands?”

“What? What the hell did you do?” Dean demanded.

“Dean! Lucifer!”

“Perhaps it’ll be best for you not to know, Dean.” Chuck advised sagely. 

“Oh, I’m sure they just had a heart-felt _talk_ , didn’t you two?” put in Rowena slyly. Sam rolled his eyes at her. But he couldn’t lie—he wasn’t displeased to see them all again. Especially Cas. They hadn’t seen him in a long time.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Sam.”

Sam went to join the small crowd, leaving Lucifer to stand apart from them. But not before they exchanged a final look. The private meaning in it was not meant for anybody else to read. What made Sam smile was the hint of hope trapped inside the amber. The moment passed, and he was at his brother’s side once again.

“Wait!”

Running up to the angel, Sylvie threw her arms around his belly and hugged him tightly, squeezing her eyes shut. She’d never done this to him, but had always wanted to try. She didn’t know she wasn’t the first to do it that day. She felt Lucifer’s hand rest on her chocolate-brown head, affectionately admiring the sleek long hair.

“Don’t ever cut it short, okay?” he murmured.

“I won’t.”

Pulling away, she took the pen she’d borrowed out of her pocket and wrote something on the palm of his hand.

“What is it?” he asked curiously. When she was done, he lifted it for a closer look.

_I Just Love You by Adam Lambert_

“Something for you to listen to when you get back home,” she told him, giving him a smile that wobbled slightly. “I think you’ll relate to it. I know I do. Promise me you’ll listen to it, just once.”

“Sure thing, Sylv.”

Father and daughter parted. The vacant spot by his side where she left to join the others was soon filled by Chuck. Father and son. For a second they faced each other. Then they turned to face Sylvie, Sam, Dean, Castiel, Crowley, and Rowena.  

“It’s time for us to go. Maybe we’ll meet again, maybe we won’t. But for now…”

Two blinks were all it took for them to disappear. The rest stood like that for a minute, still as statues, soaking up the absence and the dawning rays of sun. Sylvie did not cry. The neighborhood was slowly coming to life again. A dog barked from next door.

It was Sam who broke the spell first.

“C’mon guys,” he said, breaking their trance. They’d make a strange show for anyone looking out of their windows right now. “Let’s go inside.”

 

 

While the grownups shared beer and scotch in the kitchen and living room downstairs, Sylvie made her way upstairs, past her room and into Lucifer’s where he’d taught her the piano. Slowly, she sat on the wooden stool, opened the lid, and studied the keys for a moment. Faint sunlight drifted onto the black and white plastic, warming them. Dust swirled in the air.  

She started to play. Something softer and calmer than _Chopstick March._ But before long, her fingers started to lose their balance and the notes started to quiver. Her eyes crinkled and stung, but she kept playing. She played until she couldn’t see through the blur anymore and gave up as tears fell down her face.

The loss stung harder now that he was really gone, and she cried into the empty room full of memories. She could not stop for a long time.

 

 

Upstairs in Heaven, Lucifer was listening to the song Sylvie had given him. As the lyrics progressed into climax, he could tell why she had pleaded him to listen to this particular song. It was as if someone had written it just for them.  

 

_I’ll never stop being amazed_

_How my four-year-old girl_

_Knows exactly what to say…_

_I just love you_

_I don’t know why, I just do…_

_When are you coming home_

_I’m coming home soon_

_And I…I just love you, too…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to the song  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kB7lvCo0y10

**Author's Note:**

> So. Tell me what ya think.


End file.
